There's No Regrets
by Clockwork Storyteller
Summary: Winter storms are common, but one may just be the catalyst to change which relationships are formed in the Nordic house. Can new bonds form without destroying others? [Completed]
1. Prologue

The memories flooded his mind the same way a river floods its banks after a raging storm. He was consumed by the thoughts of the past and, powerless to stop their influx, he succumbed to the images and feelings of yesterday. His room was a good, quiet place to let himself be consumed entirely. They would all think he was just sleeping and would leave him be. Let him reminisce, secretly hoping that someone's rapping knuckles against his door would catch him before he completely disappeared into days passed long ago. There was nothing but silence and he found himself submerged in the recollections of yesterdays long gone.

"I...I lost... I lost..." The strained voice of the tall blond came as clearly as if he'd been standing in the present, saying this so him _now_. He clutched his chest, these words brought him pain even now. He listened with his entire being for the sound of his name, the sound of knocking, some sort of signal to return him to the present, but he had no such luck. The next thing he heard was his own voice, quiet and shaky, clearly scared.

"Does that mean you'll disappear?" His voice rang in his own ears, it sounded so desperate. He clenched his fists at the sign of weakness in the memory. He felt arms around him, arms that weren't real, arms that had existed encircling his body only in his recollection, not in the moment he was living now. He felt the heavy weight of a body pressed against his, yet he was alone. He was torn between the solitude of his actual existence and the current of memories that came back so vividly.

"I'm granting you your freedom. He can't take you if I do that. He can't take what isn't mine... He won't be able to take you..." Choked whispers entered his ears. He wanted so desperately to comfort himself and the one holding him. He wanted to change the memory, let it end without the fear, without the despair... let it end happily.

"D...Denmark... what exactly did you lose?" He felt his voice so foreign in his own ears. It was a memory, yet he could feel everything as if it were the very second he was living it.

"I lost you..." With those words, the heavy wooden door creaked open and there he stood, the one who had come to take Norway away.

"Well, I think you've said your goodbyes." Came the gritted, strange voice. It cut him to hear it, he felt the non-existent blood dripping out of the emotional wound. It was just as painful as being actually cut with the sword the tall man held at this side. The Denmark in his memories looked at the tall man in blue...

"Sweden." Norway gasped in the present, clutching at his chest. The memory had broken and he found himself back in his room, sitting on the floor. He breathed and forced himself back into the memories of yesteryear. How was it that he was so eager to return to the recollections he'd tried to escape not a minute ago?

"Well, it's time to go now, Norway." Sweden's voice was severe.

"No! He won't go!" Denmark choked. Norway of yesterday felt the Danish man's arms let go of him. Denmark stood up and faced Sweden.

"Enough, Denmark. You lost." Sweden's tone grew even more serious.

Norway, himself, stood up. "I... Denmark?" He looked into his companion's eyes, they were filled with indescribable feelings... and _tears_. He didn't like to see this pain in his long-time companion's eyes. He swallowed hard, "I'm not going!"

Sweden stole a fleeting glance at Denmark's hands. He had a firm grip on the axe. "It's over Denmark, you lost. You don't really expect to fight in your condition." Norway took a good look at Denmark now, he absolutely looked as if he were going to fall apart any second now. He was seriously hurt, his clothes torn, blood sticking cloth to flesh, bandages seeping through in the excess; an overall picture of pain and frailty. Norway reached for the axe, ready to fend for himself should Sweden attack. Sweden's sword swung down and impeded the contact between Norway's fingers and the instrument he hoped to reach. Norway's gaze shot up at the taller of the two warriors in his presence. Sweden was quick, careful, he hadn't hurt Norway, he'd just stopped him from reaching the axe.

"He's a free territory. He doesn't belong to me, Sweden." Denmark rasped, trying to suppress a cough. He winced and continued. "You can only take what's mine. He isn't. You can't have him."

Sweden gave Norway a thoughtful look before returning his cold stare back to the defeated fighter in front of him. "Nice try. It won't work, the deal was Norway or we fight until there's nothing left of the _great_ Kingdom of Denmark." Norway looked at them both, shocked at the Swedish man's words. Had _he_ been part of the Kingdom of Denmark? Would that mean he would have been gone, too? Even if he could have been saved, Denmark would certainly have disappeared entirely. He would have been left alone without the tall, annoying blonde that aggravated him to no end yet still managed to bring a smile to his face. He choked back his pride and embraced the blonde, who irritated him so much, as tightly as he could possibly hold him without injuring him further. He let out a few tears and let go. He stood firm and took a step toward Sweden.

"I'm sorry, Denmark. I'd rather go than lose everything." Norway choked as he looked at Sweden's imposing stance. He didn't want to look back, didn't want to see Denmark's heartbroken expression.

"You should take care of those injuries, Denmark. They'll fester." Sweden said firmly, his tone less deadly but still showing his seriousness. Denmark grunted and gasped, the scowl on his face and the way he tensed up pulled too hard on his aching muscles.

"Denmark, please take care of yourself." Norway called gently.

Present-day Norway laid down on the floor and opened his eyes. He thought of his flag: Red and white like Denmark's but he had blue in the center of his white cross. Blue for a reason he had kept to himself. He stared at his flag for a moment before the memories took over him again.


	2. Chapter 1

"Sweden, are you hurt too?" Norway asked before they got home. He hadn't seen Sweden's injuries because he'd been too focused on remembering everything about the departure, Denmark's house, the path from Denmark's house to Sweden's, the way the snow fell on his distraught face, the way every step he took was a small battle between his foot and the pile of white emptiness which stole him away from comfort. He looked at Sweden, who had stayed quiet the entire walk. The injuries had to be there, but Norway couldn't find them. Was it possible that Denmark had not even landed a single blow onto the tall figure that walked beside him? Could someone really evade the long, heavy battle-axe for so long? Was Sweden truly unscathed after such a prolonged battle? Norway's thoughts flew wildly in his head and he had to fight them in order to speak again. "Sweden? Aren't you at all injured?"

Sweden looked at his companion and finally responded, "...'f course I'm hurt, I'm just better at hiding it. Denmark knows how t' fight." Sweden extended an arm in Norway's direction and Norway was able to see bandages soaked in blood. He looked at the smaller nation, who swallowed hard, and tried to show him some warmth in the cold not only of the snow but of the void he must be feeling. He wrapped that same, injured arm around the confused, angry, desperate and melancholy companion at his side. Within seconds, the smaller was pressed against the taller one's side. He felt Norway clutch his coat and bury himself in the folds of it to hide the look of utter despair that was overcoming him. Sweden understood feelings of hopelessness, he'd felt them himself. He stopped mid-stride, acknowledged the sobs of his companion and held him closely. It wasn't like him to show affection at times like this, inconvenient times surrounded by nothing but the colorless, unfeeling piles of frozen pieces of the icy sky that had fallen to earth. Inconvenient times in the middle of nowhere, frozen and injured, standing like lame ducks. He wasn't the type to forget a task at hand or ignore health concerns for a fleeting moment of stolen comfort.

"Norway... I know it must, hurt t' be separated from him after so much time together but... we all have to live with the consequences.." Sweden spoke softly. "If it comforts you at all, I'll let you go visit him once the injures have healed."

Those words brought hope to Norway's chest. His captor would actually allow him to visit Denmark despite the possibility that it might make him rebellious.

"Thank you." Norway found himself coughing out the words, the knot in his throat traveling to the pit of his stomach and consuming him. Choke back tears, he commanded himself. He was done feeling weak and vulnerable. He straightened up and wiped back the streaming saline and water that fell down his cheeks. He turned pink from the collision of warmth on his cold skin.

That stolen moment of comfort was one that was shared between the two of them alone. No one had seen it, not another person, not an animal, no one but the two of them. Nobody knew about the fleeting sensation of arms around him, the emotions it had awoken and the deep sense of strength now and he would never forget the strong, injured arms wrapping him in warmth on a day which he'd thought would kill him of cold, frostbite on the outside and hypothermia of the heart on the inside. The embrace had dispelled them both.

His name reverberated through the walls, but he was oblivious to the sound he'd been craving to hear earlier. Nothing mattered but the memory, and he clutched it close, not wanting to let it go. Never releasing his grip on the reflection of that day in a pile of white-cold emptiness and the embrace that had filled his void with warmth at a time when he needed it most. He would not relinquish this memory and would hold it dear for as long as he existed. He then heard a bark and carefully returned himself reality.

"Yes?" He called, hearing his name followed by barking. He noticed he was still facing his flag. Red with white like the Danish flag... but with an embedded blue cross for reasons only he knew. He got up to open the door, realizing now that it must be late. He unlocked it, turned the knob and pulled the door toward himself. It was open to the world but closed to him, he didn't wish to emerge yet but the voice had sounded worried.

"Norway... Oh, goodness, you're okay. For a minute, you scared us all! We didn't know if something was wrong." Finland's soft voice came too quietly for Norway to actually focus on it. "Denmark and Sweden..."

At the mention of the second name, Norway's focus became sharp. What about Sweden? He rephrased his thoughts to sound kinder and less hastily constructed before he spoke, "What's the matter with Sweden?" He quickly added, "...and Denmark?" to sound less attached to only one name.

"They're worried about you." Finland told him. "Sweden thought maybe Denmark did something stupid and made you angry."

"Denmark always does something stupid..." Norway let a smile cross his face. "...but this time it didn't make me angry."

Finland smiled back, "That's great. So you're not angry. Oh! Do you still want to be alone or will you join us for dinner in a bit? Sweden was in a cooking mood and―"

"I'm definitely joining you for dinner." Norway positively grinned, he couldn't contain himself. He felt inexplicably giddy and wouldn't bother himself with hiding it. He left his room and saw Iceland laying down on the couch. He ruffled Iceland's hair and the paler nation protested the act. "Hey Iceland, you'll be joining us for dinner right?" Iceland muttered his response and received another ruffle in return for his somber answer. Norway felt his mood soar, Sweden was making dinner, Iceland was definitely flustered and Finland was no longer worried. He felt okay, not like the lost, melancholy person he'd been earlier that day.

"Uncle Norway!" Sealand's voice made him turn. Norway patted Iceland one last time and walked over to the cheery child, hugged him and even went as far as picking him up in the air. "Uncle Norway! Wheeeee!" Sealand hadn't expected Norway to be in such a great mood. He was so cheerful today and everyone was infected by his joy. Sealand felt his feet touch the ground again and Norway gave him an affectionate nip on the cheek with his fist, the same way Denmark used to do to him when they were younger.

"Sealand, is your papa still cooking?" Norway asked. Sealand nodded and replied with a long list of everything Sweden was cooking. Norway laughed, partially because he felt so happy and partially because Sealand stumbled over a few Swedish words. He felt that nothing could make his heightened joy drop.

Sweden called them all to dinner, Norway set the table, Finland helped him serve the food and Denmark brought out drinks. Iceland and Sealand would be in charge of the dishes and clearing the table after dinner. They sat down to eat and as they talked, ate and laughed, Sealand suddenly wanted to ask a question that he'd been meaning to ask for a long time.

"Why are all your flags the same Papa?" Sealand asked. "Uncle Denmark's, Uncle Norway's, Uncle Iceland's, Papa Fin's and yours! Is it because you're family?"

Sweden put his spoon down, "I don't really know how to answer that..." He honestly thought about it, the flags were similar in design, that fact didn't go unnoticed but why they had chosen the similar flags wasn't in his jurisdiction to say. He knew why his was the way it was but couldn't explain the others. "Maybe you noticed something we haven't."

Everyone thought about their flags, Norway in particular kept the question in mind before Sealand spoke again. "It's not like that with England, America, Canada and France..." His voice sounded defeated and sad. Sweden patted the little micro-nation and explained that not all families were the same. He explained carefully that some families showed their love in different ways, just like people showed emotions differently. Some families were all about unison and some were about individuality, as long as the family was happy they didn't have to be the same as another family. Sealand hugged his papa, cheered up by the answer.

Dinner ended and it was time for Iceland and Sealand to clear the table and do the dishes. The others were done with their duties for the dinner round and were free to retire from the table. Norway stayed behind, pensive and still sipping on a mug of hot chocolate. He sat with his thoughts about flags and snow when his reminiscences were broken by a crash.

"I'm sorry!" Came Iceland's voice. A heavy beer mug had slipped from his grip and shards of the glass had cut Sealand and himself. Norway quickly got up to grab antiseptic and bandages. He began cleaning both Iceland and Sealand's cuts. Iceland looked at the other two with an apologetic expression on his face. Norway helped them finish off the dishes after he'd cleaned up the broken shards of glass. Quickly descending footsteps alerted them that the crash had been heard throughout the house. Denmark, who had been downstairs, was the first to arrive in the kitchen.

"Uncle Denmark... We're sorry... Your beer mug..." Sealand whimpered on the verge of tears. He hoped Denmark wouldn't be too upset by the broken mug. Norway held Sealand in a reassuring hug, looked sternly at Denmark and mouthed a warning to the taller nation. He'd better not upset Sealand, the warning was clear, although soundless. Denmark smiled, he was more worried about the safety of the others.

"You're not too badly hurt are you?" He asked as Sweden entered the kitchen to assess the damage. Finland followed after and, noticing that Sealand was already being comforted by Norway, kept quiet. Iceland and Sealand both paused before Iceland was the first to answer.

"Just a few minor cuts. I'm sorry Denmark, it was my fault. It slipped from my hand and it shattered." Iceland quietly and apologetically responded. Denmark patted his shoulder, the mug didn't matter as long as they were fairly okay. Norway squeezed Sealand's shoulder gently.

Finland noticed the way Norway was being so gentle and affectionate towards Sealand and let a smile cross his face. Norway really did care about others more than he showed externally. He hoped that Norway would develop a deeper bond with Sealand. Finland was unaware that Norway was hoping to develop a deeper bond with Sweden. It hurt him that Sweden and Finland were so close because of Sealand. Maybe Sealand's bonds were so important to Sweden that they controlled who he could be partnered with. Was it possible for Norway to develop a relationship with Sweden if Sealand was so attached to Finland?


	3. Chapter 2

Night fell and as the inhabitants of the house were preparing for bed, Sealand made his usual rounds to wish everyone good night. Norway patted Sealand's head through the sailor hat he wore. Sealand noticed the faint smile that crossed Norway's face when he gave him a good night hug and kiss on the cheek. The little micro-nation was curious again about the family he'd been adopted into. He knew his papa Sweden was very serious, Papa Fin Finland was sweet but had a fierce history, Denmark was always outwardly joyous and loud, but could be serious if he needed to be, Iceland was the quiet introvert who was known to smile rarely but smile wholeheartedly when he did. Norway he had yet to decipher, Norway was tricky to analyze especially for someone so young. Mostly he was quiet, like Iceland, probably the one who set the example in the first place. Today, however, Norway had been in a strange mood. Alone and quiet in his room for a long time and when he'd emerged, finally, he'd been bursting at the seams with unencumbered joy. Norway was difficult to tell and Sealand wondered if he should ask why Norway was a maze of feelings.

"Sealand, you're forgetting your favorite uncle!" Denmark's false-hurt, loud and cheery voice came through the air. Sealand let go of Norway and set off to play-argue with Denmark about who was truly his favorite uncle. Norway lost interest in the childish argument and bid everyone goodnight, ready to be alone again. He closed his door and began undressing for bed. He took off his gold hair clip and set it gently on the clothes drawer. He was quick to change into his sleeping gear ― a simple loose shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. He was pensive and quiet before bed, thinking again about the embrace in the snow. His eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep, submerging himself in the world of yesterday once more.

A hand touched his shoulder as he scrubbed the bloody floor. Blood had dribbled down from an uncovered wound and pooled on the floor where he had stood for so long. The one on the floor looked up from his scrubbing, a captive as a result of a war he had not been an active part of. He looked at the stone face above him. The looming figure standing before him took the bucket of water away. He hoped it wasn't an indication that he was to clean it some other way. He dared not to think of the other methods that he might be forced to use.

"Get some sleep." Sweden told him. True, it was late at night and he hadn't finished cleaning the blood but keeping him without sleep was cruel. "I'll clean that up." The one on the ground began to protest saying that Sweden was injured.

"But! You... Your injuries! You can't!" Norway stammered, trying not to think of any reasons to sleep. He was a bit afraid that Sweden would hurt him if he slept. Afraid that the kindness was false, merely a ruse to make him put his guard down.

"Get some sleep Norway.. Ya look like ya haven't slept in a long time." Sweden told him.

"I'm not tired!" Norway replied on the edge of fear. He didn't want to give in to sleep even if it was true that he'd spent many recent nights awake, worried for Denmark and for his own fate.

The grim look on Sweden's face softened and he bent down to look Norway in the face, directly in the face. Norway's heart felt like it would stop, fear rising in his chest. If Sweden was trying to make him drop his guard, it was only making him paranoid. He took every one of Sweden's actions as a possible threat, an inevitable challenge to how much he could withstand, how long he could keep himself alert. He told himself he was strong. He wouldn't show weakness, he wouldn't show fear, he would hide behind a smile the same way Denmark did. He wouldn't let Sweden win him over and then let himself fall to ruin because he hadn't kept his guard up. As much as it pained him and as fake as it was, he let out a grin. He laughed, he grinned and hid all the insecurities beneath the plastic smile. It felt like he was falling to pieces, how did Denmark smile despite all the pain ― physical and emotional ― that he must be feeling? Norway choked down the bitterness of a false smile and kept it on his face. He wouldn't be weak, he wouldn't be won, to some level he could be free. If stupid Denmark could keep smiling, he could too. Denmark wasn't better, he told himself, Sweden wasn't either. He was just as good as either of them. He would smile because he was worth something, something neither of them would have understood then. He stopped choking on the bitterness and flashed a smile that _almost _looked real.

"You shouldn't worry about me. I can finish cleaning." Norway told his captor. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Ya shouldn't smile, if ya don't want to, ya know." Sweden hadn't fallen for Norway's trick. Sweden had grown up with Denmark's false smiles and Norway's confused looks. Norway hadn't understood why Sweden and Denmark fought so much. He'd never understood it, weren't they supposed to be Scandinavian brothers? Norway had always had a confused look on his face. Norway didn't smile or cry, he was just confused and with good reason. Norway looked at him, faltering in his false grin. The confused look came over him again. He had tried to smile like Denmark and it hadn't worked. Sweden had seen right through it, the same way closing a glass door still allows us to see but doesn't let us touch the other side of it. Norway looked down, trying to hide the look of confusion that everyone knew him for.

_"___I'm looking for Norway." He'd once heard. "I don't know much about Norway, except that Norway's Scandinavian."__

__ A second voice had answered, "Norway's the confused-looking one. The one who always looks doubtful, he's usually with Denmark― the one that's always happy. Not the serious one, that's Sweden.___"_

Norway held back anger and pain at the words he'd overheard. Sweden was serious, Denmark was happy, but he was just _confused_. "I'm sick of it." He'd accidentally spat out the words, not meaning to let them out of his head. He bit his lip, realizing that he'd said them aloud.

"Of what?" Sweden asked, tucking his hand under Norway's chin and pulling up the smaller one's face up. Norway gasped, looking at Sweden's face so closely was... _indescribable_. He bit his lip again, not wanting to speak. Not wanting to admit what he felt was a flaw. He kept silent, and in his ever-present confusion bit down harder, causing his lip to bleed.

"Ah!" He winced. He felt a finger on his lip and looked at Sweden, who gently pushed his teeth upward, releasing the grip that Norway had on himself. Sweden was being gentle but Norway didn't want to let his guard down for any reason. He thought about whether or not he should answer the question. Sweden kept his thumb pushing Norway's teeth up. He responded, "Of always being 'the confused one'. I'm sick of it." Sweden had let go at Norway's first word. He looked at Norway with an analytical expression on his face. Norway was hurt, he was insulted, and most of all he was confused. "Why am I always the confused one? I don't want to be confused anymore! Please let go of me." Sweden was still holding Norway's chin, but let go at the request.

Sweden looked him in the eye, "What are you confused about?" He asked, reading the other's eyes for an answer. "If I can, I'll explain." Norway's expression softened before he replied, holding back frustrated, choking words.

"Everything." He choked. "There's so much I don't ask about. Denmark doesn't tell me everything that happens. He tries to... I don't even know what he's trying to do..."

Sweden's expression grew less grim. "Ask. Ask me anything." Norway tried to read Sweden's face for signs of dishonesty, he could find none. He felt like he could trust the person he was now a subject of. He felt a pang of loneliness, not for himself but for Denmark. Had Denmark won, Norway wouldn't be able to ask all he wanted to know but there would be no pain of separation. Now there was pain of detachment, but he would have a chance to learn all he wanted to know.

_For everything, there was compromise,_ He thought in his dream.

* * *

><p>After those words, he woke up. He woke up in the pure bath of sunlight that streamed through his window. He stretched and made his bed, lay on it for a minute and held an outstretched arm toward the ceiling. He took off his loose shirt and put on the blue sailor-suit he was so known for. The sunlight made his gold hair pin gleam brightly and grow warm. Norway ran his fingers through his soft, flaxen hair. He pinned part of it back, careful not to scratch himself with the clip. He touched the warm metal cross that held his hair in place. It was gold in color and substance; he thought to himself, "has anyone wondered why my cross is gold and not silver?" He walked out of his room, awaiting the "Good Morning" greetings that were sure to come his way. He waited, but nothing came, he walked into the kitchen. It was empty. He checked the clock on the wall. It wasn't an odd hour to wake, why was he the only one? He decided to take a walk outside. It was then that he noticed that laughter came from outside. The first hints of snow came at him when he took a few steps out the door.<p>

"Go! Go! Go!" A child's voice cheerily broke the silence of the fading laughter. "Show them no mercy!" A hearty laugh took Norway's gaze from the micro-nation to the tall Dane throwing snowballs at Sealand. They were having a snowball fight while the soft, white flakes continued to fall.

Norway wondered whether to join them or not. The answer became clear as soon as a snowball hit him squarely in the chest.

"H-Hey!" Iceland protested, "Norway's not a part of this." Denmark hurled a white near-perfect sphere at Iceland, grinning. Norway rushed to Iceland, Denmark's snowballs hurt.

"Denmark!" Norway scolded. He turned to Iceland, "Hey, are you all right?"

Iceland averted the question, "Have you had breakfast yet?" Norway shook his head and Iceland continued, "I'm fine, you and Sealand should go inside and eat. He was waiting for you."

"Sealand?" Norway turned to face the little nation. "You were waiting for me?"

Sealand threw a snowball at Sweden. "Yeah! Did you eat already?" At his side, Finland threw a snowball at Denmark and pulled him out of the way of an incoming retaliation from Sweden.

"No. Let's go, I don't know how long I've made you wait." Norway smiled. He and Sealand ran inside trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire of icy spheres.

At the breakfast table, Norway watched as Sealand served him and himself food. The boy was careful and even thoughtful enough to serve Norway coffee. Norway wondered how many times Sealand had served food and coffee by himself because he did so flawlessly, as if from practice.

"Uncle Norway, are you okay?" Sealand asked. Norway looked at him. "Yesterday, you were locked in your room for a long time! We got worried..." Norway took a second to think about his answer.

"I'm fine, Sealand. You shouldn't worry about me, I should worry about you. I can care for myself. You're a child, there are some things that you need help with." Norway answered nearly honestly. He wasn't going to lie completely but he also didn't think spilling his guts to Sealand was the best idea. When they started eating, Sealand noticed Norway ate carefully and the way his cheeks flushed red with the first warm sip of coffee.

"Is it good?" Sealand asked. Norway looked up from the cup, studying Sealand's somewhat anxious expression. "I made it by myself... Did it turn out the way you like it?"

Norway smiled gently, "It's really good. How did you know how I like it?" Sealand grinned from ear to ear.

"That's a secret!" He put a finger to his own lips as if to shush himself. Norway laughed, Sealand was truly a child, even for a nation, he was pretty young.

The snowball fight didn't continue until Sealand and Norway returned, both of them now well-fed. Norway put on a heavier coat despite being able to withstand the cold in just the sailor-suit. He stood by Iceland, who was uncharacteristically very excited about the snowball fight. They divided into pairs. Denmark and Sweden were left to pair up with each other, as the others had been quick to choose. Norway made sure to cover Iceland when the latter stooped down. Sweden was careful not to throw too roughly in order to not hurt anyone. Denmark too, was surprisingly gentle in his throws. After about fifteen minutes, they all called quit, laughing and sore in their throwing arms.

"How about another game?" Sealand smiled breathlessly.

"Peter, we're all pretty tired." Sweden told him. Sealand looked at his father-figure with a pleading expression. Sweden's resolve melted and he gave in. "What game were ya thinking of?"

"Tag?" Sealand looked around to his family. Was tag a good choice? Denmark looked like he loved the idea, Finland smiled gently and Norway merely shrugged. Iceland and Sweden showed no indication either in favor or against the idea.

"Tag 'tis." Sweden told his son. Sealand immediately called "not it!" followed by Denmark, Finland and Norway. Iceland nervously called "not it" but was drowned out by Sweden's call of the same words. Iceland would be the first to try tagging people. Everyone set off in different directions, all except Denmark and Sealand, running at a normal pace. Denmark and Sealand ran at top speed, racing each other. Both of their legs faster and faster, Denmark in one direction and Sealand in another. Iceland tried to catch to someone, _anyone_, and tag them.

Norway noticed that snow was piling faster and falling more furiously now. This wasn't the type of weather that _anyone _should be playing in. He ran after Sealand, following the path of small footsteps that led away from the house. Sweden's voice reverberated in the swirling white flakes. He was calling for everyone to go back indoors immediately. Norway ignored the plea and kept running in the path of the small footsteps. He wanted to find Sealand, desperate to get boy to safety.

"Sealand! Sealand!" Norway yelled after the sea-faring boy. Sealand wasn't wearing a jacket. He could get sick in such a storm. Norway knew by the sky's coloration, a steely gray, that storm surely intensify. Norway knew, for he'd seen many before, that was the sign of an incoming blizzard. "SEALAND!" He took the task before him very seriously. He had Sealand back home, away from this storm.

The snow quickly piled on itself, furiously deterring Norway from his task. He quickened his pace, racing against the storm to find the boy. He hurriedly looked for footsteps and followed them. He saw before him a steep decline. He hoped for the best, looking at the path of steps. Sealand had gotten lost in the never-ending whiteness of it all. **Sealand must have lost his way.**


	4. Chapter 3

"SEALAND!" Norway yelled again, he waited for some sort of sign that Sealand had heard his call. There was a strangled noise that came through the wind. The wind was picking up, and it made locating Sealand's voice difficult. He tried to pin-point Sealand's voice but could not. He tried to look for more prints but found the task difficult as well. He looked up at the sky, as if to plead with the snow to stop. He took a deep breath and at the top of his lungs yelled, "SEALAND! SEALAND!WHERE ARE YOU?"

Another strangled, frantic voice replied to his call. Then another, Norway tried to find the source, another call in the same voice sounded. Norway ran toward what he thought was the epicenter of the cacophonous sound. He had a feeling that Sealand had sunk into the snow and was unable to get up. He saw the hat that he so associated with the young boy and then saw a frightened face. He reached into the shallow trench that the boy was trapped in and pulled the boy out. Sealand was severely shivering, cold and afraid. Norway brushed the snow off of the smaller nation. Sealand held him tightly, trying to get warm. Both were quiet until Norway spoke.

"Are you hurt?" Sealand looked at Norway and shook his head. Norway spoke again so as to keep fear from creeping on the boy. He asked an obvious question, but it was all that he could think of immediately, "Sealand, are you very cold?" Norway waited for a response but took of his jacket and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders then pressed him close to himself, trying to warm him up. Sealand clutched Norway desperately, frightened and cold, trying not to cry. He was pretending to be brave for his own sake. Norway held Sealand tightly and looked at the sky. He felt his shirt growing wet and warm with Sealand's tears. Norway recalled his own fear on the day Sweden had held _him_ like this. This time he was the brave one. He held Sealand tightly and began rubbing his back up and down in order to soothe him. Sealand's hands formed fists, clutching Norway's sailor-style shirt tightly, and full of desperation. Norway held Sealand and picked him up, getting him away from the small pit that he'd fallen into.

"Uncle Norway..." Sealand's soft, whimpering voice came from underneath the jacket and was muffled by the wind. "Uncle Norway... I'm scared. I'm really scared Uncle Norway. I want to go home with Papa!"

Norway held him gingerly, "Shh. We have wait out the storm. Or we'll get lost." Sealand clutched tighter and Norway remembered when Iceland was that small. He kissed the top of Sealand's head and closed his eyes, relieved. The jacket was big enough to cover them both. It had never been meant for Norway's size. Denmark had chosen it far too large for the much smaller Norwegian. "Hey Sealand, would you like to hear a story?"

Sealand loosened his grip a little and looked up at Norway. "Is there excitement in it?" Norway nodded. Sealand asked another, "Is it... _true_?"

"It's about your Papa, Denmark and me." Norway told him.

"Really?" Sealand's fading sobs made his voice quiver. He was genuinely interested in the story now.

"When we were younger, I used to live with Denmark..." Norway began, somehow finding the story appropriate. With every detail he spoke, Sealand's eyes became wide with wonder. He had never heard about this time in his father's life. He constantly interrupted with "really?" and "my Papa?" much to Norway's delight. Sealand was greatly interested in the tale, so engrossed in the story that he nearly forgot the storm as they walked toward shelter. Norway went on and on, Sealand hanging on to his every word. They found a large tree and took refuge next to its large trunk. Norway adjusted himself into a more comfortable position and continued. Sealand's shivers had died down now and before Norway could say anything, Sealand pulled the jacket over them both. The boy smiled up at Norway and urged him to continue. Norway spoke carefully, trying to avoid too much detail about Sweden's injuries. Sealand was interested in his every word but soon, as all children do, had to fight to keep himself awake. His drooping eyelids, half-focused eyes and increasing drowsiness were becoming too much and soon he gave in to sleep. Norway looked down at Sealand, in his mind thinking of a baby. He'd never seen a _nation_ so young but had many times seen humans with babies. He recalled Iceland's early years, he hadn't seen Iceland as a baby either. He held Sealand the way people hold newborn children, gently and closely as if unsure that the moment were real. Norway took a good look at Sealand, ran a gentle hand through the boy's golden-brown hair and kissed the top of his head. This was Sweden's son, Sweden's adopted son was in his arms, depending on him for survival. Norway covered him completely with the jacket.

Norway's breaths were visible in the barely lit day. He could tell temperatures were dropping and the storm was only worsening. He held Sealand and adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, yet again, resting the boy's cheek on his shoulder. Norway looked up at the steel-colored sky, his breath rising as he took a sharp breath and exhaled desperately. Had no one checked the weather? He pulled the hood over Sealand and now the boy was completely enveloped in the warmth of the large jacket. Norway looked down at the bundled child and thought back to the embrace between himself and Sweden. Sealand had fallen asleep before that point in the story. Norway let a pained smile cross his face. Here he was, with Sealand, keeping the boy warm, keeping him safe. He wondered how Sweden must be feeling. Sad, surely. Fear? Norway whispered to himself, "Don't you worry, he's safe with me... He's safe with me. I swear, I won't let anything happen to your son." Norway had never told anyone, but he cared deeply for the boy. Not just because he was Sweden's son, but because he brought them together, constantly wanting to visit his uncles. Norway was thankful that in the midst of formerly battle-ridden nations, such a cheery boy had found a home, spreading his joy to them all.

Norway's heartstrings were pulled in many directions, a part of him relishing the quiet and the forced bonding between Sealand and himself. Another part of him empathized with Sealand's fear. Yet another part was hurt that this might be as close as he would ever get to being a parental figure to Sealand. It wasn't up to Norway to decide Sealand's life at all. He was, after all, "Uncle Norway" not "Papa Fin." That title rightfully belonged to Finland. He was jealous, he wouldn't even begin to deny it. The feeling of burning jealousy was as close as he could get to the triumphant fire of standing up to someone and taking their place. Finland was the one who looked after Sealand, not him.

Norway took the title of "Uncle" in Sealand's mind and it got him to wonder, yet again, how important Sealand's feelings must be to Sweden. Could the micro-nation's feelings determine the relationships that Sweden formed with others? Would Sweden even consider Norway's feelings since Sealand cared for him as an uncle? Could he, Norway, become a parental figure for Sealand? Could he win Sweden's love through his adoptive son? Was there a chance that forging a relationship like steel with the young boy could cause a romance between Sweden and himself? He thought about these things as he watched Sealand sleep. Was he really about to hurt Finland's feelings just to become a romantic interest in Sweden's life? He thought about the great friendship he and Finland had, he couldn't and _wouldn't_ throw that away just for a romance that might end or be fleeting. He thought about Sealand, he couldn't use and manipulate such a young and innocent child for his own selfish purposes. He looked at the wrapped-up, adopted son of the person he so loved. He couldn't hurt Sealand, he couldn't hurt Finland, he _couldn't_ do it. He bit his lip, an old habit of his, and looked up at the falling snow. If there was ever a time Norway's chest had felt so confused for a reason not related to Sweden, he couldn't remember it.

Snow continued to pile around them as time went on. Norway leaned on the tree trunk, noticing something that he hadn't before. He shifted his hand and noticed that there was an opening, a hollow part of the tree, big enough to provide them better shelter. He gently placed Sealand inside first then crawled in himself. He then sat against the inner trunk and held Sealand once more. He noticed a carving on the inside of the tree. "Yggdrasil" the carving read. Norway recalled that he and Denmark had hollowed out this tree and used it as a secret playroom when they had been younger. They had spent countless hours there with myths and legends to keep them busy chattering and sometimes doodling. Yggdrasil, they had named their tree, after the world tree in the Norse myths. He wondered when Sealand would wake up, but didn't do anything to wake him.

"Sweet dreams, Sealand." Norway whispered. He adjusted the jacket, which had crumpled up when Norway had seated himself. He felt something heavy inside the pocket. He reached inside and pulled out jars of food, cleverly hidden by Denmark a few days before. Norway would normally have been angry after having found the food he had been searching for in his jacket. The Dane had always played these annoying games, hiding everyone's snacks and drinks in order to keep them guessing the location. Especially Norway's food and coffee. "Denmark, this time you've actually helped." Norway put the jars in the pocket again. Should anything happen to him, he wanted Sealand to be safe and at least have some food until he was found. He didn't know why he was being so pessimistic, or was it just preparedness of his? He couldn't tell.

He uncovered Sealand's head and ran gentle fingers through the boy's hair. It was almost impossible to think of Sealand as adopted, he _looked_ like Sweden's son by blood. Norway held back a smile, even for a moment he felt close to Sweden and Sealand. He would wait for the storm to pass, then he and Sealand would go home. He reached into the other pockets of the jacket. A small knife had escaped his notice when he'd gotten the jars out. He began to carve more out of the tree while Sealand slept on the floor, enveloped in the warmth of the jacket. He listened to the _scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch_ of the blade against the trunk of the tree. S_crape, scrape, scrape_. He kept etching into the tree, deeper with each blade pass. He intended to carve a shelf out of the tree. He needed a place to put the jars. He scraped and cut more and more out of the tree. He began to feel hot and ―not wanting to end up in sticky, sweat-laden clothes― he took off his shirt, placing it down. His body shivered immediately, the collision of cool air on warm skin sending shudders through his spine. The pale skin grew rosy where the cool air met the warmth of his strong muscles, subtle as they were, but working quickly to create that shelf.

Beads of sweat traveled down his body. He wiped the sweat from his brow and aired out his hair, running his fingers through his golden locks to keep them from sticking to his neck. His chest gleamed with the small beads of sweat that had pooled in his efforts. He continued working until completion. With a fistful of snow, he cooled down his body whenever he felt too hot. Once the shelf had been cut out of the inner trunk, he put his shirt back on and took the jars out of the jacket. He'd made a small notch in the tree where he now hid the blade.

When Sealand woke, Norway would tell him about the location of the inconspicuous notch that hid the blade. He smiled down at the sleeping boy, quietly laughing to himself, children really were easily comforted. As he waited for Sealand to stir, he let himself wonder how the others must be coping with this separation. It was only temporary, Norway firmly believed so. There was no reason to fear for Sealand, he'd protect the boy even if it killed him. They were family after all and no member of his family would he forsake, he loved them all and he would defend them all. Norway's persistent determination kept him awake despite sleep seeming so inviting.

Sealand's sleepy voice reached Norway's ears, "Uncle Norway?" Norway faced the lumpy bundle. "Don't... leave..." Sealand was talking in his sleep. Norway felt a little knot in his chest, Sealand was dreaming of Norway leaving him. Norway held Sealand again.

"I could never..." He replied, feeling a wave of sadness once more. "Please don't ever think I would leave you." He kissed the top of Sealand's head and made a confession to the still-sleeping boy. "I wish... I wish you would understand... I want to be a parent to you..." He choked back the little desperation that had risen inside of him. Sealand was unaware of Norway's feelings and he didn't know how to feel about how well he was able to hide his true emotions. He wanted to tell Sealand to stop thinking of him as an uncle, to think of him as more of a parent. He wanted to tell Sweden that he loved him. He had yet to do either and deep inside of his mind, he secretly thought it would be better if he said nothing at all.

"Uncle Norway?" Sealand spoke drowsily. He was half-awake now, looking at the Nordic nation holding him. Norway managed a small smile but Sealand must have learned from Sweden not to believe false smiles. He spoke again, "What's wrong, Uncle Norway?"

"Please...Please don't call me Uncle." Norway whispered, before Sealand could reply, Norway remembered the jars of food and the knife, "Sealand... Sealand, there's food here, in these jars. Two of the jars are small, but the are others. There are five jars... filled with food. And... here... look... here's a knife. If anything happens, I want you to stay here and eat this food... when the storm passes, your papa would find you here..." Norway had begun to sound desperate.

Sealand sat up and crawled to the place with the knife, pulling the blade out carefully and looking over at Norway. The blade belonged to the Norwegian looking at him. The blade was for his protection if anything happened to his current caretaker. He put it back, telling himself he wouldn't need it. He looked at the jars of food. Two jars were truly small, barely the height of his pinky and fitting perfectly in the palm of his hand. The three other jars were about the size of jam jars, but were filled with other foods. Sealand crawled back to Norway and hugged him.

"Nothing is going to happen to you Uncle Norway..." Sealand told the other, reassuringly. He remembered that Norway had told him not to call him _Uncle_. "Why can't I call you 'Uncle'?" Norway smiled and shook his head, he had not meant to say that. Sealand insisted.

"Sealand, I'm sorry... I just wish you would think of me as someone much closer than an Uncle. The way you think of Sweden and Finland." Norway sighed. He expected Sealand to reject the idea. Sealand, instead, remained pensive.

" Like Papa Fin and Papa?" Sealand thought aloud. He thought of some title that he could give Norway, closer than an uncle. Brother? "Can I just call you Norway?" Norway hugged the child closely. That was perfectly fine. No "Uncle", just Norway.

"That could work." He kissed Sealand's head. Now he had to build up the courage to tell Sweden that he loved him. He took a look outside. Waiting for the blizzard to pass would give him plenty of time to think. The storm would give him a chance to think, build up courage and formulate his words. **The storm raged on.**


	5. Chapter 4

Sweden was genuinely worried, neither Norway nor Sealand had returned when he called for them. He wanted to search for them, but the visibility was low. The storm was violently howling and spitting crystal flakes in a flurry of nature's extreme power. He sat at the table with his elbows on the tabletop, fingers interlocked and chin resting on the woven-work of the man's hands. Iceland nervously watched the door, Denmark and Finland prepared hot chocolate and blankets. Should the two missing nations return, they would welcome them and fuss over them lovingly. Sweden looked over at the door occasionally, waiting for his son to appear.

Sweden got up, "We should look for them. " Everyone turned, hadn't he been the one who had insisted they stay inside and wait out the storm? Denmark handed him a cup of hot cocoa, Sweden refused to take it. Finland told Sweden to take it and the Swede finally obliged. He remained standing. He walked to his own room and pulled a photograph from his wall. He looked at it. It was a photograph of Sealand's first day with his new, Nordic family. He looked at the smiles on everyone's faces and how even Mr. Puffin and Hanatamago had been so welcoming to the boy, the dog at his heels and the bird atop the boy's head. He wondered how Sealand must be doing, how he must be faring in such weather. He wondered whether his boy, the cheerful and loving child he's adopted was able to withstand such cold weather. He drank from the warm mug in his hand. He didn't want to think of such nerve-wracking things but they incessantly swarmed his mind. He wondered whether Norway and Sealand were together.

"Norway, if he's with you, keep him safe." He spoke to the photographed Norway, the one smiling and welcoming the boy. He hoped that Norway had found Sealand or that at least both nation-persons were safe. He drank more hot chocolate, not really relaxing nor enjoying the beverage. He was worried, genuinely concerned for the welfare of his son and his comrade. He stood up again and went to the kitchen, depositing his now-empty mug in the sink. He felt very nervous, something rare for him. He put on his coat and headed out. He was stopped by the tall Dane. He pushed, Denmark wouldn't budge. He tried to evade him, Denmark was too quick. He didn't want to start a fight but he wanted to leave.

"Denmark! Denmark, my son's out there! I have to get him home!" Sweden yelled at the Dane. Denmark firmly gripped Sweden's arm.

"Norway is out there too. We can't risk losing another person. We're all worried, don't do this. " Denmark spoke a warning, his eyes locked onto the Swede's. Sweden swiped a foot behind Denmark's foot and made the Dane fall hard. Sweden flung the door open, slammed it shut and ran. The storm was full-force now, howling and swirling quickly-descending flakes and biting at exposed skin of anyone unfortunate or stupid enough to be outside. The footsteps were completely gone now, giving Sweden no help in locating the boy and his Nordic counterpart. He hurried in the direction of the path he'd assumed Sealand had taken. He ran until he reached the still not frozen lake. The lake was cold, but not frozen, and he hoped that Sealand had not fallen into it.

He tried to step closer but his foot found a ditch. He then panicked, not for himself but for Sealand. Had the boy broken his legs on the trench then crawled out and drowned? Had someone dragged the injured boy away? Had Sealand gotten hurt? He got himself up and looked for possible paths that the boy or any captors would have taken. He saw none but his eyes met a row of spaced trees. He remembered Norway and Denmark hiding from him amongst the trees. He couldn't recall why they were so successful at hiding in the trees. He tried to recall whether they climbed the trees or were able to hide in their midst because they were large and similar. He decided to check. If Sealand had made it this far, he wouldn't be stupid enough to let himself be exposed to the elements when there was possible shelter. Sealand was a child of war, survival was deeply rooted in his blood. Instinct was sure to have taken over. He brushed snow off of himself and walked to the nearest tree. With his foot, he tapped the roots and made gentle swipes. No one was seeking shelter in this tree. He marked it with a branch; he snapped off the long, thin branch and stuck it vertically in the snow. He'd checked this tree and didn't want to waste time checking trees twice. He moved on to another tree, hoping this wasn't a stupid idea.

"Peter?" He called as he stooped down to brush away snow with his hands. There was a snow-white hare but no Peter. The startled white creature shivered and cowered into a crevice formed between a root and the rest of the thick trunk. Sweden reached for the frightened hare and soothed it. It looked at him curiously. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of carrots Denmark had hidden away. He'd found them while cooking and stuffed them in his pocket, knowing he'd use them in his recipe. He'd forgotten about them yesterday and had left to buy groceries. Now, having found the carrots Denmark had hidden from Sealand, he took them out and placed them on the ground near the crevice. The hare eagerly came out and began nibbling on the acquired food. Sweden poured out the rest of the pack, unevenly spacing them but leaving them somewhat close to the hare. This hare would mark the second tree he'd checked. He moved on.

The next tree was devoid of any branches, Sweden ignored it. The branches and foliage were what provided the shelter from the falling snow. This tree would be no use. He reached the next tree he found worthy of revision. As he walked around it, he saw something scruffy and brown. He wondered if it was a tuft of hair peeking out. He also feared it might be ripped-out hair as if the person it came from had gotten in a fight. He tried not to picture Sealand getting his hair torn out in a quarrel but the images his brain conjured up were vivid and frightening for a father. He reached for the tuft of hair. Before he could get his fingers around the brown tuft, it _bit _him. It wasn't a tuft after all, but a shrew. Sweden broke another branch and poked around the shrew.

The little creature viciously attacked the branch when it came too close to a certain spot. Sweden noticed this and used the branch to keep the shrew at bay while he brushed the snow from the area the shrew was so interested in. He felt something warm and furry. He looked at the cluster of warmth and fuzz and poked the center of the cluster. Furry, small creatures went into a desperate frenzy. These creatures were lemmings. The shrew had been hoping to prey on lemmings but now they scurried away, startled. The shrew seemed to know something the lemmings did not, for it didn't chase after them. The shrew cowered away in the little patch of warmth the lemmings had left behind. It only took the time for Sweden to stick the branch in the ground for the reason to become clear. A sharp cry of "AA-OOW OH AA-OOWW OOH" reached his ears. He'd heard this cry many times before, it was the call of the Snowy Owl. Sweden managed to see the great bird of prey as it swooped down.

He moved to another tree. The diameter seemed to be two meters by approximation. It was a big, thick tree; not the biggest, but big enough to shelter a twelve year old boy, certainly. He swept snow away with his his hands, carefully. There was no sign of his son. He marked it with another broken branch. He hoped to find Sealand soon. He peered at the lake and saw a small dock. He and the others had built it many years ago. It had been longer back then, having been used to dock longboats. The long dock became inconvenient and had broken so they had repaired it but kept it only long enough to dock two small fishing boats, one on each side. He remembered Sealand sitting there, with his feet in the water, when he had felt homesick on the first summer he had spend with them.

He remembered the lake in the days _before _the dock. He recalled playing roughly, as boys do when they are young. He recalled he had been a little too rough with Norway. Denmark had gotten pretty angry and had taken the shaken Norwegian away. He remembered them swimming away to shore then darting off when they had reached land. Denmark had pulled Norway forward and given him a ride on his back because the smaller found his legs turned to jelly after so long in the water. He tried to recall where they had hidden, he remembered Denmark saying something but could not recall what.

"Yggdrasil", Sweden recalled Denmark saying. This was from a Norse myth. Denmark and Norway were running to "Yggdrasil". Sweden looked around, he tried to remember the path he had taken when he had found them. He tried to remember whether Denmark or Norway had told Sealand about Yggdrasil. In the back of his mind, he scolded himself for not having told Sealand this myth himself. He cursed when he realized he was quite deep in snow, having stood in one place for so long. He stepped forward, carefully avoiding tree branches that had been broken by the howling wind. He moved quickly, but froze entirely when he heard a cry. He turned in the direction of the sound. A gunshot rang out, Sweden swallowed hard, harsh and raucous laughter drifted his way. He felt sick, imagining the worst. He felt his knees buckle, his nerves suddenly making him dizzy. Not his son, he begged, _not his son_. The scenery was nothing but a white-gray and brown blur now. He collapsed, feeling empty and sick.

Another cry reached him, but in his nerve-wracked state, he did not make out anything. He felt the bile rise in his throat, making his nausea worsen. His throat felt hot, burning with the stomach acid that was now near his mouth. He tried to swallow it, to hold it back, but he could not. He vomited. He scooted away from the vomit, too weak to stand. He felt very ill, from nerves and cold. He began to cough. His coughs burned him, he choked. He gasped and spluttered, the odor of his own vomit making him sicker. He managed to pile some snow on top of it and stand. Noises finally reached his ears after a brief moment of hearing loss and buzzing in his ears. The noises were still distorted, but at least he could hear them. Two more gunshots rang out.

Voices and crying mixed with these gunshots and became nothing but strangled _noise_ in Sweden's head. He took an unsteady step forward. Patches of sunlight were rare but the few and small breaks of sun were enough to allow Sweden and anyone else outside to see something. He stepped forward again and felt his foot squish something. Afraid to look, he took another step. Now his other foot felt the same sensation. He took a few more steps, hoping the squishing sensation was only softened snow. He turned back, bracing himself in case he had squished something living. Or, something that __used___ to be_ alive. He saw a tarp, blue and obvious against the white-gray snow. He mustered all of his courage and pulled it back, hoping beyond hope that he'd be able to handle whatever lay underneath. He looked at what was underneath, breath caught in suspense. He laughed, it was a nervous, broken laugh. It was a laugh of relief.

The tarp covered nothing more vile than mud. Surely someone had used it to avoid stepping on mud in recent weeks, when rain had fallen only enough to gently soak the earth, to make puddles and then cease. He walked on, the feeling of relief so powerful that he genuinely gained strength from it. He told himself to keep walking toward the thickest tree. The tree that Denmark had nicknamed Yggdrasil, or had it been Norway? Sweden couldn't recall which one of them had named the tree. He was certain that it hadn't been himself. He settled on Denmark, because even as a child, the Dane had a knack for annoying Norway. He pictured young Norway protesting Denmark's nickname for their hideout. He imagined Denmark convincing or annoying Norway to the point that the smaller agreed to the name.

Either way, the tree had a name, and since they had discovered it as young boys, they'd used it as a hideout. When they grew too large to share the natural crevice, they'd hollowed more out of their beloved tree. He was very close to the tree now. He could see its opening, then he was reassured that _someone _was hiding there. The opening was always hidden by snow or fallen leaves. Someone had swept away the snow and hidden inside. He put his guard up but hoped he'd find Sealand or Norway. He finally reached the tree. He looked at it, making sure this really was Yggdrasil. All he had to do was read a faded carving above the opening to finally be sure that this was the tree. The carving read "Stay out! You are mean!" in old Norse. Clearly, Denmark had carved this, Norway had been too short to reach this point when they'd first found it. Sweden ignored the inscription of centuries passed long ago and knelt at the opening.

He heard a shushing noise and scuffling. He heard breathing and then was blinded. A bright flash light shone straight at his face. He stumbled backwards in confusion. He blinked a few times before the after effects and ghost colors finally went away. When he could finally see again, he saw inside the crevice. Norway apologized to him and Sealand crawled over to hug him. Norway was red in the face, he looked down and apologized again. Sweden waved off the apology, Norway was protecting his son. Protecting him very well by the looks of it, Sealand was wearing the large coat and he had a knife at his side. Norway wasn't leaving Sealand defenseless in case something went wrong.

Sweden crawled inside the large tree trunk after Sealand beckoned him inside. Once inside, he finally realized just how large the tree _really_ was. He'd heard Norway and Denmark arguing over its actual size, a long time ago. They'd gone as far as measured it. It was slightly over five meters in diameter. Yggdrasil was the largest tree in the patch of scattered greenery. It was a ridiculously large amount of space, large enough to fit the entire Nordic family and still have plenty of room. The height his Nordic brother, Denmark, had hollowed out was approximately a meter and a half, not enough to stand but sufficient room to sit and crawl, even for Sweden. It must have seemed like a fortress to Denmark and Norway back then.

Sweden was truly impressed. This was his first time inside the massive tree. He remembered overhearing America bragging about large redwoods and sequoias. He had claimed they were large enough to drive a vehicle through them. England had ignored the claims, saying that America had eaten one too many burgers and was on a junk-food fueled rant on stupid things that could not possibly be true. If Denmark had told him how big Yggdrasil really was, Sweden would have told him that he was drunk and that the tree couldn't be so huge. He now wondered how large Yggdrasil was, having not paid attention when they had measured it.

"Norway, how big's Yggdrasil?" Sweden asked. Norway looked at him and tried to recall the measurements. He was quiet for a moment.

"Diameter is about five meters. " Norway said, being this the only measurement he could accurately remember. "Slightly bigger than that, but I can't remember by how much. "

Sweden did quick calculations in his head. Yggdrasil was truly massive; he wondered how big America's redwoods were. He looked at Norway, who was putting away the knife and giving Sealand his flashlight back. Sealand hugged Norway in gratitude. Norway ruffled the boy's hair then crawled over to a different part of the tree. He curled up to sleep. Sweden was here now, Sealand didn't need him. Norway was about to close his eyes when he heard his name.

"Norge?" Sweden called him. Norway turned to face the taller Nordic.

"Yes?" He replied, the only thing that he could think of saying.

Sweden crawled over to Sealand, "Thank ya for taking care of him. " He sincerely felt grateful to Norway. He'd feared for the boy's life. Here he was, safe with Norway. Norway's face flushed red. Sweden held Sealand and thanked the Norwegian again. "Takk, Norge. "

Norway's face flushed crimson, the darkest shade his cheeks could turn. "Sweden, he's family. Family sticks together. I love everyone in the family and I'll protect you all. " Norway had intended to use the blizzard as time to think. Sweden had unintentionally cut Norway's time short. He didn't have the time to formulate words or to build up courage. He wanted to hide but his feelings were about to spill. He had already had a hard time holding them back from Sealand. He didn't want to blurt out his feelings. Instead, he bolted, made a mad dash for the opening of the tree. As soon as he was outside, he was toppled backwards by the strong wind. He sunk in the snow. Usually, he would scramble back up quickly, but now he just let himself sink. He wanted to be buried in the white and gray. He wanted to freeze and whiter away. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Norge? N-Norge... get up please. Papa and I want you to be safe. Please get up, Norge. " Sealand's voice was strained. The boy, nearly swallowed up by the heavy coat, was on his knees. One of his hands held the coat and the other was on Norway's shoulder.

"Lukas, get inside You'll freeze like that" Sweden called to him. Norway only cracked a small smile at Sealand's accent. He had not only avoided the word "Uncle", Sealand had also made an attempt at speaking Norwegian.

"Sealand, you're a great micro-nation. So caring though you're small. Once you're recognized, you'll do great things, I just know it. " With those words, Norway got up.

Sealand, too, got up. He threw his arms around Norway and let the taller nation ruffle his hair. "Peter, you're a great kid, you know that? Your papa should be proud of you. Bye." Sealand felt Norway zip up the jacket on him and watched the Nordic nation's representative walk away.

"Papa. . . he's leaving. . . " Peter called to his adoptive father. Berwald looked out and summoned Peter back inside.

"Let him go. He knows what he's doing. " Berwald spoke as Peter got back in. The tall Swede looked at Sealand, he looked so small in the oversized coat. Berwald held the boy close. He had been so afraid of losing Peter that, now, holding him close felt like a miracle. The boy was happy that his adoptive father hugged him despite the heavy coat. He gave his father a kiss on the cheek and hugged back.

Norway walked on in the snow, although the storm pinked his exposed skin and his every breath rose before him. He closed his eyes and visualized the path he'd have to take to get back home. The path was one he'd traveled many times before and the mental map in his head was as clear as if it had been directions on a three-dimensional map. Visibility was worse than when he had been searching for Sealand, but he figured that he could "feel" his way back home. After only a few steps, he heard a sickening crack. He fell forward in the snow and hit the cold piles of white-gray face first. A few more cracks registered in his mind.

He scrambled to get up, brushed snow off of himself and then the scene registered in his mind. Mere centimeters from his foot was the leg of a deer, he looked up. The barrel of a gun met his gaze. It was a shotgun, Norway recognized the silhouette of one even in the swirling flakes. This wasn't the only gun pointed at him. Any hopes that Switzerland needed to discuss urgent business went out the window. He felt a heavy hand grip his shoulder and then the cylindrical shape of a gun barrel caressed his neck. He felt panic surge through his body. There was an alarmingly strong scent of liquor. The combination of liquor and firearms sent a strong electrical charge of utter fright through the Norwegian's body. This couldn't possibly end well. As a second gun made contact with Norway's skin, he held his breath.

"Hej då, Sverige. Jag älskar dig. " He closed his eyes as these words formulated in his mind.

**A gunshot cut through the sound of the howling blizzard.**


	6. Chapter 5

The reunion between father and son was full of suppressed joy. They were vigilant but with an air of cheerfulness that came from familial love. The moment was as precious as the finest gem to the pair. The silence that followed was not fearful nor cold but pensive. They reflected on the day as the storm lazily impeded their return home. It was not clear enough to walk safely but not stormy enough to bury the forest's fallen logs completely. They waited for the storm to pass, the Swede cautious and the boy tired.

"Papa, I'm getting sleepy." Peter yawned, looking up at his father, who crouched by the entry to the hollow tree. He asked, "Can I sleep?" and felt his dusty-golden hair ruffled by his father's hand. The father's hands were rough and lined from years of work and battle but nothing could make them any less gentle when it came to his son.

"Go on, sleep." Berwald smiled slightly as the boy began nodding off to sleep. He thought of his good fortune. Lukas had found Peter. He was good with kids, wasn't he? From what Berwald knew, Lukas had always retained a gentler side to his cool and quiet self. Berwald reminisced on the days when Norway had helped raise Iceland. Lukas had been great at child-rearing, if Eirik was any indication, even when things got tough. He had not neglected the duty that was helping Eirik grow up. He had some instinct with Peter, too. Lukas had, after all, been the one to sense the boy's whereabouts when the storm kept him away and was the one to keep him safe until Berwald's arrival.

The movement that took place at that moment could not simply have been called "falling." The word was an understatement of what happened and what was felt. The entire world was a dizzying blur of white-gray snow, winter forest, falling flakes of snow and the steely gray of a stormy sky. Sounds were a cacophony of spoken word, rushing air, crunching footsteps and hollow breathing all meshed together as if they had been poured into a blender and poured out for his ears to take in. It was too much all at once, his ears unable to dissolve the mix and find individual sounds. The rush of sound and sight felt slow, as if the victim of this phenomena were frozen in the time of it happening. Two pairs of arms reached out for the falling man. There was nothing that could register in Lukas' mind. Not the firm grasps of strong hands catching him and not their intention. Garbled slush was all he could hear and distorted vision was all he could see. As the men pulled him forward, the scene reflected itself backward. The kaleidoscope that was the forest rushing upright again and the interference of sound untwisting. He caught his breath, the shallow breathing of an injured man, and blinked slowly. He looked at the person who had pulled the trigger, a woman. She was young and dark blond, fierce and athletic, a lady powerful without the firearm she pointed at the sky.

The vigil kept at the house was beginning to grow weary. Tino was slow and unsteady, making and drinking excess hot cocoa. The Finnish man had woken up the sleeping dog when he dropped a cup full of hot chocolate, shattering the cup and spilling its contents. It had been six hours since Berwald had left against his own advice. Six exhausting hours of waiting for knocking at the door or the sound of a turning doorknob. Nothing came in the six hours since the Swede had stormed out and time wore on. The Icelander was fast asleep on Mathias' shoulder, a blanket ― intended for the missing trio ― covering them both. Mathias stubbornly refused the temptation of sleep, downing enough coffee to challenge Lukas' place as the "caffeine king" of the house. He continued drinking cup after cup of strong coffee, shaking a little from over-caffeinated indulgence. He did not shake enough to wake Eirik or scare Mr. Puffin, who was nestled in a fold of the blanket, atop the Icelander's lap. Hana-Tamago's tail was whipping softly against Tino's leg as she lapped up the spilt hot chocolate.

"No! No! Hana-Tamago! You'll get sick! No chocolate!" He groaned, noticing the fallen cup. He sighed, suppressed a yawn, and put the dog on the Dane's lap. "Watch her for a minute, will you?"

"Sure, sure. Go on ahead. I'll... in a minute..." Denmark replied, slightly out of focus and his thinking unclear.

"I think you've had too much coffee, Danmark." Finland raised an eyebrow as he spoke.

The Dane just buried his face in Eirik's ashen-blonde hair.

The woman's voice was firm and clear. She spoke in a commanding tone, speaking in Norwegian. Lukas smiled slightly, his own language was being spoken. He felt calm even thought the presence of a gun held possible danger. The language kept him calm. She stood firm and looked around them. The she took steps toward Lukas. Her words were all in Norwegian.

She spoke, "Hello? Can you understand me?"

Lukas spoke, in Norwegian, shakily in response, still dizzy and slightly disoriented. "Yes. Are you Norwegian?"

The woman cracked a smile, "Yes, are you? A little ways off from Norway, aren't we?" They were standing in the Swedish snow. "We were out hunting. Got caught in the storm. What about you?"

"A boy got lost in the storm. I helped his father find him. Now I'm headed home." Lukas replied, "I'm Lukas by the way."

"Astrid. These guys are my brothers: Leon, William, Kristian , and Sigurd." The woman nodded in their directions as she mentioned their names.

Sigurd wobbled and put his hand outstretched to shake Lukas', Lukas took it and gave it a light but firm shake. He went around giving handshakes to the rest of the brothers and was invited to spend the night in their camp while the storm passed. Lukas took one drink ant the world began to blur. Just one drink and he was feeling ill. His dizziness began to show. Drinking with them had been a terrible idea in Astrid's eyes. He hadn't even tried to drown out the events with the liquor. He was speaking in a slur and confessing things that he'd never meant tot tell anyone but the tall Swede at home. His body was in a slump and his hands were no longer in control. He broke down in tears, feeling an ache he had never felt before, and confessed everything to his companions. Astrid, the only sober one, listened patiently as Lukas slurred out all his truths, including his status as a nation-person. He was not drunk, he was breaking down.


	7. Chapter 6

The motion started with one arm in front, his elbow gripped the cold ground, then his knee dug into the slush of mud and snow. Arm first, then leg, followed by the other side of his body repeating the maneuver. The beads of sweat sticking his clothes to his skin made it more difficult for him to move. Arm, leg, gasping for breath. He winced in pain, his whole body ablaze with the strain of crawling on snow.

He needed to get to Yggdrasil, be needed to find the comfort of a familiar place. His breakdown made everything so difficult. He had started off running but his legs had given out. He had collapsed and started crawling, determined. It had taken him over an hour just to reach he area where he had met the group of hunters. His heartbeat was slow and weak; the fire in his muscles and the numbness in his brain threatened to leave him sprawled out on the frozen forest ground. He fought back with every ragged breath and every push forward. He wanted desperately to curl up inside Yggdrasil's massive trunk. He could not bear to die among strangers. He felt life escaping him with every passing minute. If he was going to die, he would rather it be in the hideout of his childhood. He had to reach a place he could find peace in. Arm in front, then his knee, a ragged breath which he could see rising in front of his face, and repeat.

—

His boots crunched the dead, frozen leaves on the porch. At his side, his son's breath rose in little puffs of white. He watched the door open, then it all became a blur. Fast movement, quickly exchanged words, a pair of blankets entered the mix and the door clicked shut. Tino had Peter in his arms, the boy swallowed whole by a blanket. Somehow, he realized that he smelled hot cocoa. Someone was speaking.

"Berwald... Hello?" The Icelander waved a hand in front of his face. He felt himself blink, taking the mug of cocoa and muttering unintelligible thanks. Eirik nodded and turned away. Words the Swede could hear but could not make out came from Eirik's lips. Sounds, sights, smells, nothing at all registered in his mind. He tasted nothing but felt the heat of the drink in his mouth. He downed the whole thing before he realized it. His mind did not register that the contents had been drained entirely. It was not until he felt the mug being taken that he finally clicked into the present.

"He left." The words came out of his mouth before he knew why he was speaking. "Where's Peter?"

"Taking a hot bath," Tino replied. "Don't worry, he's home."

"No, Norway. Norway left. He walked out. He... is he here?" Berwald was half-entranced as he spoke.

"No, he isn't here." The Dane replied through gritted teeth. "He didn't say where he was headed?"

"Alone, he needed to be alone." Berwald was talking, but had Norway said that or had he come to the conclusion on his own? He did not know, all he knew was that Norway was not here.

—

He was coughing violently from the strain he had put on his body. He was only a few trees away from Yggdrasil. Life was slipping away from him and he was alone. He had continued crawling and found sweet Yggdrasil. He clutched his side in pain and crawled some more, using the barely exposed tree roots to pull himself closer to his target. The roots were cold and tangled, but still helpful.

As he crawled, thoughts paraded through his mind. Had snowflakes always kissed his skin before melting into droplets? How many winters had he watched snow piling up without a single passing thought? How many snowflakes had melted on his exposed skin? Had he ever before noticed how the cold sharpened his senses? He pulled himself with another root.

He could see Yggdrasil clearly now, it was beckoning, welcoming him. It knew, he mused, that he craved to shelter in its hollowed trunk. He crawled on.

His hands met the thick root protruding from Yggdrasil itself and he pulled himself with all his strength, crawling into the man-made crevice. He was lying on his back, his hand touched the inner trunk of the majestic tree. He stared up at the rough ceiling that was made up of crudely cut tree trunk. He stared up at the marks that had been left by the hollowing out of the tree. Every knife stroke had been accounted for, each having left its mark on the tree. He had never taken the time to fully appreciate the hideaway. Now, with his life slipping away, and a clear mind, he let his thoughts flow freely.

How many times had he hidden here? How many times had this very tree sheltered him? How many days had he run to this very tree for solitude? How many times had he cried here? How many times had he laughed? How many times had he and Mathias —_stupid Mathias_— shared stories within this very tree?

Stupid Mathias… Stupid… Mathias… With his grin that seemed oblivious to the troubles and truths of the world… Would he ever see that grin again? That obnoxious laugh of his, the cocky way he behaved himself, the mischief in his eyes… Had he ever told the Dane he cared? Had he ever stopped fighting long enough to hug him and tell him he was thankful to have him?

Tino… They were best of friends, all those days of being the only sane ones in the house. All the secrets exchanged, all the laughter and sympathetic grins… Had he ever thanked Tino?

Eirik… Oh, Eirik! His little brother. All those years of watching him grow up, watching him become independent and mature. He wanted to hear Eirik call him "bror" just once… Had he gone about it in the wrong way? Had he pushed Ice away? Would he ever see quiet Eirik pout and refuse again?

Peter, the glue that held the family together sometimes. So young, yet so mature in the midst of them all. How little Lukas really knew of the boy. If only he could turn back time and bond more with the sailor-suited boy… and his father.

Berwald, how painful it was to lose Berwald. Never again to see those blue eyes that seemed to pierce into the soul, never to see the tall figure, his strength… his kindness. Berwald, his beloved Berwald… gone. Lukas noticed he was crying. It was not hysteric bawling, not sobbing; just bitter tears rolling down in procession, one after another, down his face. Gone. The Norwegian closed his eyes and drew a ragged, choppy breath.

—

Sleep was not coming to him. He stood up and pulled the curtains aside. He heard the scuffling and scanned the darkness for signs of movement. Nothing on the ground. A crunching sound drove his attention to Norway's balcony, clumps of snow cascaded down from there, kicked out of the way. A tall figure leaned on the railing of the balcony. Although Peter could not see his face, the silhouette told him that the figure was his uncle Mathias. Uncle Den was leaning on Lukas' balcony, probably waiting or maybe unable to sleep. Peter understood. He looked up at the sky, clouds were scurrying away, taking the storm with them. He saw the Cheshire moon, a crescent of white in the pin-pricked patches of visible black sky. The bright crescent shone weak light on the tops of trees and showed Dane's figure pacing on the balcony.

The snow had piled on the balcony where he stood, the whiteness seemed so innocent yet it was so cruel. With black, unforgiving, boots he had kicked some snow off the balcony and cleared a large patch to stand in. He leaned forward and waited, unaware that he was being watched. Standing guard here was an excuse to be alone. The swirling flakes clouded his view. He would not be able to see anyway, but he just could not sleep. Sleep was an impossibility, he could not until he knew for certain where Lukas was. He looked up at the crescent moon, visible through the passing clouds. How many times had he joked that the crescent moon was a smile? It was mocking, a smirk of derision tonight. He hated it for looking like a smile. The moon, his joyful nighttime grin was like salt scrubbed into a fresh wound. The wind howled, causing trees to dance and sway. Everything seemed to be laughing at his pain. Rustling trees sounded like whispered gossip in his mind, the stars and the trees were exchanging words of his pain. Everything was hurtful, snowflakes piling atop each other in his hair and caressing his skin; even his own breath, as it rose in little puffs, seemed like a parade of ghosts jeering at him. It was too much, he kicked some more snow off the balcony, cursing the storm and the excess coffee for this excruciating despair.

—

Politics. The neat and tidy excuse they used for warning against romantic feelings was _politics._ It was so simple, just to tell the nations that governments and the influence these had could strain a relationship. It was much easier to sweep away the tragic, heartbreaking truth behind the word "politics." The truth was far more colorful and ugly than the black and white, tidy excuses. The truth was also far sadder and more twisted. The consequences were horrid, and gut-wrenching. It was not a law nor a rule that kept the matter swept under a one-word excuse. There was no rule against romance, but the secret reality that only some knew kept the excuse in place. Three small booklets held the truth behind the excuse; those booklets tagged as taboo reading material. They existed only to be kept, but never read. The truth was so much worse than pretending the disapproval of a few heads of nation made romantic feelings between nation-persons impossible. How easy it would be to just continue following an unspoken, unwritten rule. How much more satisfying it would be to pull those small bound booklets off whatever shelf housed them and find out the truth. If they were taboo that meant _someone _had read them. Or maybe it was not the content, maybe someone taboo had written them. Word of mouth would be the only way to know. He had found out who the last readers had been. They had been warned and shown these booklets to solidify the warning. Lucky was the word they had used to describe themselves after the fact. He had to know, too. He had to get his hands on the taboo booklets. The warning contained within, he had to know why it was covered up with the word "politics."

"They were originally in Ancient Greek and Latin." One of the previous readers had informed him.

"So I have to get them translated?" He had asked.

"If you want, or you could have our translator's notes. We don't need them anymore." The second previous reader had replied. "In fact, take then. We don't need any reminders..."

Three books, old and fragile, along with several pages of translation had made it into his hands. The truth was now at his fingertips. He had wanted to know, but now that all he had to do was read, he didn't think he could do it. The weight of knowledge was only a few grams but it felt as if a building had collapsed on him. The neat handwriting of the translation was easy to read, all he had to do was turn the page and begin. He placed a finger on the first translated title page, "Troy." The second read "Atlantis" and the last one "Pompeii." All he had to do was read. He would know the truth behind international love if he read. He would know the reality behind his romantic feelings if he just read.

He had turned the first page.

—

A blue and yellow blanket covered the man, his chest rose and fell rhythmically, making the blanket seem to grow and shrink about a centimeter. He was sleeping off the long day on his bed. His glasses lay, neatly folded, on his bedside table. His mind had started unveiling memories in the form of a dream.

He changed out of the torn, bandaged clothes. The cloth wrapped on his wounds was soaked with crimson. He removed the makeshift bandages and soaked clean rags in water to clean up his injuries. That crazy Dane sure knew how to handle the battle-axe. Personally, he preferred his sword. He dabbed water on his wounds and wrapped them in fresh cloth. He needed some sleep, his energy was drained from battle and the long walk home with Norway. He blinked and yawned, it was time for sleep. He got up to check the place and grab wood for the fire in his room. He noticed the small Norwegian fast asleep on the stonework floor. He had fallen asleep scrubbing the floor. Hadn't he specifically told Norway to rest? Norway's flaxen hair was wet with water and sweat, his locks sticking to his skin; the only exception being that odd, gravity-defying curl. It floated, unaware that the weight of the water and the pull of gravity should pull it down and force it to join the rest of the Norwegian's hair.

Dream Sweden knew he shouldn't, but he carried Norway to an empty bedroom. Norway should sleep on a proper bed, not the floor. He felt the weight of the Norwegian in his arms. His eyelashes caught the light emanating from the torches and Sweden could see how they fluttered in his slumber. The smaller blond's head lolled to the side and rested on the Swede's chest. He lay the smaller nation-person down and pulled covers over him. His chest and stomach had an odd sensation about them.

Sweden blinked, this memory had come to him out of the blue. It was late, and his room was dark. He felt a surge of guilt as he recalled he had let Norway go during a storm. He mentally kicked himself for his thoughtlessness. He got up and walked to the window to check the snowfall. He pulled the curtains aside and his eyes met the colors of dawn. He noticed Norway's balcony doors were open and the curtains were billowing in the wind. He could barely make out a small black blur against the pile of off-white snow on the balcony.

—

Troy. He had heard of Troy before: The legendary Trojan War, the large wooden horse that had been a false peace offering. Somehow, he knew that what he was about to read was not going to repeat the same story about Troy. There was something more to the myth, something that history kept quiet and modified. Troy's reality and the legend were not one and the same. What that had to do with romance he had yet to find out. He would read the "taboo booklets" and discover. As he begun reading, his heart and stomach decided to switch places. He felt his heart sink and the contents of his stomach rising. Why was he so nervous? Could these booklets hold such earth-shattering revelations? He started with the Troy booklet. His eyes widened, the myth behind Troy had been created to hide the real happenings – that much he was certain of from the start – but the best lies always held a particle of truth. There had been a Helen, but not just one, the myth had been created by sweeping away this detail and twisting it to incorporate merely one of the two. The Helen of the myth was merely a fair Spartan woman, but the _other_ Helen was Ancient Greece herself. The Trojan War had not been as portrayed – not entirely. Troy had fallen in love with Ancient Greece, but the affection was not returned and it turned into a madness that caused him to pull the strings to start the legendary war. Troy had not been interested in military glory nor fame from the happenings, all he sought was Helen's attention and love. Ancient Greece had watched as Troy had marched himself into certain death, his military suicide taking hundreds on either side along with him. An entire civilization left in shambles – Ancient Greece had not been able to forgive herself for realizing too late Troy's true intentions. As atonement, she had written the booklet to warn other nation-persons of the horror they could face with an act like this.

As he lay in the trunk of Yggdrasil, the memory of having read those three booklets had seeped into his consciousness. Love had consequences. He ran his fingers weakly across the bark. Politics had been such a good excuse. It had kept him from revealing his feelings for so long the truth had done a far better job of keeping quiet. What had been the point of silence? He was still feeling the hand of fate beckoning. Was love the risk? He felt himself about to fight his mind. The argument in his own head would be simple. Silence had been the right choice. No, he should have confessed. It wasn't simple at all. What about the consequences? Troy had practically crumbled in a day. Could he risk that in his own time? Did he dare love and get crushed, knowing it might hurt the entire Kingdom of Norway? His heart ached. The hole he had crawled inside was now blocked by snow. Here he would rest, cold, alone and unloved. Troy had not been the only one. Atlantis had drowned herself. From that act had come the myth of the city sinking into the sea. Pompeii had been the most gruesome. Kindly, history had simply mentioned the eruption of Vesuvius. No one needed to know the truth. Troy. Atlantis. Pompeii. He thought of the two previous readers of the booklets. They had been lucky. Their love had been mutual. They had come of the situation relatively unscathed. Still, theirs had been such a lucky break, did it mean his fate was also tragic? Or would his gate be more favorable? He almost let out a laugh. Why was he even asking? It was obvious! He was lying in wait of death, was he not?

—

The curtains swayed in the wind. The door to Norway's bedroom had been open when he looked. He had been hopeful for a second. With silent footsteps he had walked into the room. Not only was it empty, it was cold. Snow had swirled inside. Iceland walked over to the balcony doors. He noticed the pile of snow, within it was a little black figure. He stepped out and pulled it from the snow. Iceland closed the doors to the balcony. He held the little black hat in his hands and pulled the curtains shut. He pulled out Norway's space heater, leaving the black hat on the nightstand, and took the little heater close to the doors of the balcony. He plugged the small electrical device in and directed the heat to the floor. The snow had melted into the carpet and it needed to dry. Iceland sat on the bed and took the photograph from Norway's nightstand. It was an old black and white print of Norway, Denmark, and himself sitting on a bench in a Swedish park. Norway had been reluctant to take this photograph but now it rested in a neat frame on his nightstand. Iceland put the frame back and picked up the small black hat. Denmark. There had been a footprint on the railing of the balcony. He left the room.

—

A blanket was neatly tucked around her. She woke up and noticed he was gone. What a shame. She sighed and nudged one of her brothers. They had to get moving in a case the storm picked up again. Astrid and her brothers were not the kind to risk their lives for a hunting trip. Astrid thought about the storm, they had not been too far from camp when it hit. They might not be so fortunate for a second strike. She was predator, not prey, they were going to pack up whether they liked it or not. She tied back her hair and picked up her gun. Lukas had been a nice, decent guy and she sincerely hoped he had not gotten himself lost in the storm. She reached in her bag for some food. A can of peaches. She opened it up and ate slowly. Lukas had talked of someone special, she recalled. Someone important. She laughed, he could not hold his tongue after just one drink. She sighed again. He was interesting, shame he had left without a goodbye. She nudged her brothers awake. She had to leave the tent. Nature called, but she could not go unless she knew someone was aware she had left. The four woke when she got up to stretch loudly. She noticed something in the snow. A gold clip in the shape of a cross, not a religious cross – judging by the orientation of the pin – a Nordic cross. A cross like the one on the flags. She turned it over in her hand. It was not a pin for someone to wear on their shirt. It was a hair clip, she realized. She tried to remember owning such a clip. Definitely not hers.

"Hey, nature calls." She called to her brothers. She held out the pin. "Any of you recognize this?" All of them yawned and shrugged but William makes a face. Then he spoke.

"I think that guy, Lukas was his name, no? I think he was wearing it." William sounded certain. It was Lukas' hair pin. The gold Nordic cross that he had cherished for so long.

—

The Swede opened his son's bedroom. Peter wasn't in bed. The covers were flung to the side, the pillow showed that the boy had been in the bed. Berwald scanned the room and saw that Peter was asleep on the floor. His hand was pressed against the glass and his head was rested on the windowsill. The rest of the boy's body was stumped against the wall. Berwald picked Peter up, the boy woke and looked at his father's face.

"Papa, you can put me down. I'm awake." The sleepy boy yawned.

Berwald put Peter on his feet and asked, "What were ya looking at las' night?"

"Oh, Norway's balcony. I couldn't sleep. I don't think Uncle Den could sleep either. I saw him–" Peter replied but was cut off.

"Peter, Berwald, come for breakfast. I made omelets. Come on while they're still warm." Tino interrupted. Berwald and Tino walked out of the room, the micro-nation's representative behind them. Peter smiled up at the Finn. He _was_ hungry. Papa Sweden would be too, he guessed.

The breakfast table quiet. Two of the six chairs were empty. Tino got up to wake the Dane but the Icelander shook his head. Peter put another forkful of food into in his mouth. Berwald looked at his son and at Eirik. They had matching expressions of concern on their countenances.

"I'll get Denmark." Sweden spoke finally.

"He's not in his room," Iceland sighed. He took a sip of his orange juice. That was all the input he could give, he did not feel like saying much else.

"He jumped from Norway's balcony last night. I think he went to look for Norway." Peter stated matter-of-factly. Iceland nuzzled Mr. Puffin, not wanting to let the others see the pain in his eyes. Hanatamago nudged Peter and he slipped her a bit of his omelet. Tino caught this and cleared his throat. The boy shot up in his seat and flashed the man a sheepish grin. This almost felt like a normal morning. Almost like Denmark would walk in, yawn and devour breakfast while Norway poured himself coffee and shot him a disapproving look. It was not normal, there was a void in the home. It was wrong.

—

She saw a figure moving in the woods. Too tall to be Lukas, and headed in the direction of a patch of older trees. She had left the tent because of nature but the Nordic cross pin had caused her to wander. The pin in her pocket felt and looked old. It did not look like a mere trinket. She had decided herself to try to find Lukas. He had told her he was headed home when they had met. He could not possibly live too far if he had left during a storm. He did not seem the type to let himself get caught in a storm, in the dark. It had to be close. She was snapped out of her thoughts by a voice.

"Nor! Nor! Can you hear me? Nor!" She heard. She saw the black-cloaked figure again. He had to be one yelling. She took a step away from the deeper woods. "LUKAS!" She froze, she could not have heard correctly. She had not slept well, she had imagined it, she told herself. Then it came again. "Lukas! LUKAS!" She turned back. She had to follow him. The chances of another Lukas were too slim. It had to be the same one. She ran to catch up.

He used his hands to remove the snow from in front of the tree. He dug, his skin turning a raw pink, faster and faster. This was it. He had to be here. There was no other place. He had to be here. He shoved the snow out of the way. Lukas had to be behind the snow, inside Yggdrasil. He could not have gone anywhere else. This was the only shelter. He had cleared the opening. He cleared more snow and stooped down to the hollow tree.

—

Drums. Drumming. No, it was his heartbeat in his ears. It just _sounded_ like drums. Music had been on his mind. Drums. Why did that call something to mind? Lyrics. Music.

_"__Can you hear the drums Fernando?__"_

_ Fernando. _ That song play in his head. Drums. The word "drums" was in the lyrics. Let it play, let it be the soundtrack to his fate. It was music from Sweden. His beloved Sweden. The most popular band to come from Sweden and there was Norwegian in it. He smiled. ABBA. How funny, a single word used to describe the sound of a beating heart had triggered these thoughts, these memories. These feelings. Light had started to to peek in from the opening of the tree. Was the snow gone or was it the light of the afterlife? He closed his eyes and began singing softly. Fernando was a good song. It was a beautiful song. Drum. Drumming. A heart beat.

—

"Papa, please don't. Don't go please." Peter pleaded. Sweden put his hand on the door frame, he paused. He saw the boy's eyes and sighed. He closed the door and let Sealand hug him. His son, the only one he had, his joy in his life. He could not leave him. He hugged back.

"Papa, how long have you known Lukas?" Peter asked.

"Don't you mean 'Uncle Lukas'?" Sweden raised an eyebrow.

"He told me to call him that! Honest!" Sealand replied.

"All right. I've known Norway since we were kids. He's Uncle Den's brother. Uncle Den is my brother. We all lived together. Mama Scandinavia raised us." Sweden began. He talked on about growing up together, knowing Norway but being unrelated. He talked of Norsemen and Vikings, of kings and battles. He told Sealand about the time Norway had lived with him after a battle with Denmark. Sealand nodded and told his father-figure that the Norwegian had told him of it. He had heard of the trip half way and fallen asleep. The Swede was taken aback, surprised that Lukas would have shared this bit of history with the boy. He took a moment to think about that point in their history.

During that walk home after his defeat of Denmark, Norway and he had shared an awkward embrace. The smaller had cried. Berwald was not the best at comforting people but he had tried. He had tried not to be too harsh, not be too cruel. He had actually tried to be kind. All the details came to him as he spoke. The design on Lukas' bunad, the way he had tucked his hair back repeatedly, the way he had smiled when Sweden had told him he could visit the Dane once the wounds were more healed. That smile. It was bright, it was unique. He remembered the smile best of all. His face flushed and Peter looked at him as the older looked away.

"Something wrong Papa?" The boy asked.

"No. Just remembering something, is all. Just remembering." He cleared his throat. He had to see Norway. How could he have let him go?

—

—

—

Note: Please forgive the long hiatus on this story and for those who follow it, I apologize for you receiving an email about chapter 7 being available. It was my mistake. I have updated all the chapters to be cleaner reads and some minor details, however.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

><p>He walked past the door every day and still could not get used to it being permanently closed. Some days he would stand, waiting for it to open. Once, he had opened it and found the emptiness too much to handle. He had closed it again and hurried down the stairs. He avoided looking at the door most days, although it was nearly impossible. It was directly to his right when he exited his room and to his left when he arrived. That door with its neat black lettering that spelled out "Norge" with a smaller "Lukas" underneath remained closed. He was gone. Gone because of Sweden.<br>Finland's door opened. He patted the Swede on the back. Tino was certain that Berwald had been thinking about Norway again. It had been five weeks since the storm. Five weeks since Denmark had returned with Norway in his arms. Five weeks since Norway had weakly muttered, "Troy. Atlantis. Pompeii. Me. " Five weeks of wondering what those words meant. Five weeks of Sweden looking at the door and feeling empty. Five weeks of him looking at the note he had found underneath his door. There was one thing written on it in shaky handwriting, the name "Fernando." What was that supposed to mean? What he supposed to understand? What had Norway been trying to tell him? The note haunted him, confused him„ hurt him. What did Fernando have to do with anything? Who was Fernando? Where was Fernando? Sweden had to find, had ask him, he had to know.

* * *

><p>Peter closed his suitcase. He looked up at his father then down at his plane ticket. He clutched the suitcase handle tightly, but before he could get it off the bed, he was met with a hug. Uncle Den gave him a crushing hug and Uncle Ice ruffled his hair. Sealand put on his sailor hat. It was the first time he had done so since the storm. It had been too painful before. The sailor hat had reminded them all too much of Norway. He had avoided wearing it since Lukas had departed. Iceland's eyes were wet with tears he quickly blinked away. Denmark cleared his throat.<br>"Have fun, Peter! Oh, if he's there, say hi to America for me." Denmark smiled.  
>"Of course! Bye, Uncle Den! Bye, Uncle Ice! Bye-bye Papa Finn." Peter responded with a nod.<br>The Finn gave the boy a hug, "Be safe, Peter. Have a good time and don't forget to call." The child nation laughed but agreed to be safe. Peter then followed Berwald out to the car, taking his suitcase along. The boy would be spending the summer with Arthur. Berwald had been invited, but he had politely turned down the invitation. Matthias and Eirik had summer plans together and Tino wanted to spend time in his homeland. Berwald would be alone in Sweden for the summer. He told himself it was okay for him to be alone for a while. He turned on the ignition as he heard Peter's door click shut. He turned out of the gravel parking area in front of their house and began toward the airport.  
>"Are you sure you don't want to join us, Papa?" Peter asked as they turned onto the paved road. He did not like the thought of his father spending the summer alone.<br>"It was thoughtful of Arthur to include me, but the summer trip is for you, Peter. Besides, I already told him I wouldn't go. Showing up now would be rude." The older answered.  
>"I don't know, maybe Arthur would like an adult around…" Peter tried, "We could go get some stuff for you, Papa. We won't be late."<br>"I'll be fine for one summer. Who is the father, you or me?" Came the calm response. "Oh, and one more thing. Arthur does want an adult, that's why he invited my boy."  
>Peter laughed, "Papa!"<br>They spent the rest of the drive to the airport talking. Peter talked about Pirates versus Vikings. Berwald thoroughly enjoyed the conversation though he picked up the subtle hint. He was a persistent boy, trying to get him to agree to join them in Britain. Peter had fallen asleep before they reached the main road. Although Berwald was glad the boy had quieted down and he no longer had to find gentle ways of declining the trip, he found that noticing interesting things on the road was not a very good substitute for the boy's voice and laughter. He would miss Peter over the summer.  
>It was not was not long before Peter was sitting next to him on a plastic chair, waiting for his turn to board. The airport made him feel an emptiness he has been trying not to notice. Various languages announced flights boarding, arriving and delayed. Several times he heard "Norway." He tried not to feel, he tried not to think. It became of nearly impossible when he saw a group arriving from a German flight. A woman had run up to one of the former passengers. The whole time she had not stopped saying what was apparently his name "Lukas." Finally, the announcement came. Berwald made Peter promise to call him as soon as he arrived at Arthur's house.<br>"You are as bad as Papa Finn! I'll call, I'll call! I'll be fine." The boy laughed in response, waving back.

* * *

><p>Everything was white. Watching the world below had become a bore. His footsteps were soundless and he had begun to call himself a ghost. He considered visiting the war veteran again. That man had been one of the brave ones during his prime years of life. His stories were fascinating. He looked again at the world below, people were going about their lives without a passing glance. He thought about visiting the elderly lady who talked of her grandchildren often. They all had stories to tell. He would not divulge his own but he listened to everyone else's. He could spend all eternity listening.<p>

* * *

><p>The phone rang. He picked up and heard his son's voice. He could hear background noise, too. Peter had just called as promised. It was time for dinner. The call ended and Sweden was alone again. He walked outside and sat on the porch. It had been six months. Six months ago, a storm had stolen Norway from him. He rested his elbows on his thighs and placed his head on his hands. Summer was so far from winter, yet he felt the chill of snow and the cold of winter. He could feel the frozen breeze and could have sworn he saw his breath. He looked forward.<br>The path, the trees, the view… It was all too familiar. He looked to the sides. The bench on the porch and the bushes that grew to the sides had been untouched in a while. Norway had tended to those bushes. The bird feeder was empty. That had been Norway's favorite part of the porch: the three-tiered feeder that was rarely visited. A brilliant bird with fiery orange plumage had stopped by once — the look on Lukas' face had been overflowing with joy. Less colorful bird stopped by, although rarely. Every time a new bird stopped by for a snack, Norway had photographed it.  
>A stray cat meowed. It looked up cautiously at the Swede. Sweden went inside and brought out some chicken meat. He lay it on the floor next to the porch steps and watched from the bench. The feline slowly approached the chicken meat, then dragged it away and began eating it. Berwald grabbed a bowl and filled it with water, placing it down beside the steps and walking back inside. The curious cat lapped up the water from the bowl and watched the man from the porch. The screen door was closed but the main door remained open, allowing the cat to see but not enter. It began to meow again and the blond turned. He sat by the screen door and watched the stray swipe a paw at the material. He was so lonely, this dirty stray his only companion. He opened the screen door.<p>

* * *

><p>She tied her hair back and shook her brother Kristian awake. Rule number one was: always let a other person know where you are going. Never go alone, unannounced. He was not waking up. She tried Sigurd. He woke quickly but swatted her off like a common house fly."What'sit, Astrid?" He yawned.<br>"I'm going out. I'll be back, don't wait up. Just letting ya know." She answered.  
>"Where 're you going?" He asked, still groggy.<br>"I want to return this." She smiled, holding out the gold cross pin. Lukas' pin. Lukas, Sigurd could hardly remember the man, but from what Astrid had told them, he was a good person. He helped a boy in the storm and looked out for her when they — her brothers — had been too tipsy. He then disappeared into the night like a fairytale hero after saving the damsel in distress. Astrid was determined to find him and return the gold pin.  
>Honestly, Sigurd almost sympathized with his sister but he could not take the last part of her description out of the picture. She had followed a blond man into the woods. He had been yelling out for "Nor" and Lukas. This blond had dragged Lukas out of a tree the way a magician pulled a rabbit from a hat then carried him. His sister had followed after in case Lukas was in danger. The tall man had been talking, begging for Lukas to respond. Lukas had been coughing but managed to say "Troy. Atlantis. Pompeii. Me." before coughing for a long period of time. The tall blond had promised Lukas everything would be okay.<br>_"What were you humming? Sing it. Sing it for me." The one carrying Lukas had spoken desperately. The Norwegian had begun murmuring. A melody. Astrid had felt it was familiar, she had heard it before somewhere. She could not place it but she knew it was a song she had heard before.  
>"There's no regrets." The darker haired blond had repeated something Lukas mumbled. The smaller had gone still. He was completely silent. His chest did not seem to rise and fall. Astrid had followed closely until she watched the tall man reach a home. <em>  
>Present-Astrid was determined to return to that house and give Lukas his pin back. Sigurd watched her leave the campsite and did not try to stop her. This was a journey of her own. Though she had described what sounded like Lukas' certain death, he was not going to be the one to crush her hopes. He would be the one to comfort her when she returned disappointed. He was not going to be the bearer of bad news. He was her brother not to destroy her but to help her rebuild. As she disappeared into a tiny dot, he began waking up the rest of the men.<p>

* * *

><p>The cat turned out to be previously owned. She did not scratch him faceless when he bathed her. She was docile and well-behaved. Her coat was a delicate golden color, like sand in the wind. Her mismatched eyes made her more of a beauty. She needed a name and he suggested a few but she turned up her nose or hissed to them.<br>"Dandelion, then. I'm runnin' out of ideas." The Swede nudged her. She looked back at him then turned back, another rejection. The doorbell rang so he got up and she followed. He opened the door and found a woman standing there.  
>Astrid was surprised. The man at the door was not Lukas and did not appear to be the blonde that had carried him on that cold morning. She stood, stunned, for a moment without speaking. When she did speak, her voice was soft.<br>"Hello, is Lukas here?" She spoke in Norwegian.  
>Berwald replied in his thick accent, "He is not here."<br>"Will he be back? I… I have something… something of his." She stammered, a little intimidated by the tall figure in front of her with a grave voice. Without any more hesitation, she held out the pin.  
>He looked at her curiously. "Ah. I believe he would have appreciated this."<br>"I… just wanted to give this back. Sorry for intruding or interrupting." She handed him the pin and took a step back.  
>"Thank you. I am sure he would have given you his thanks himself if he were here." The Swede smiled weakly.<br>She shook her head and took another step back. Her hair bounced as she walked down the steps and set off in a run toward the woods. She had been running around five minutes when she noticed a docked boat bobbing on the lake. It was christened "The Scandinavian" and was decorated mostly with faded paint. A Danish flag, a Norwegian flag, a Swedish flag, an Icelandic flag and a Finnish flag were fading on the right side of the hull. Paint fresher than the rest depicted a black, white and red rectangle. Underneath was written "Sealand" and Astrid raised a brow. Was that supposed to say Zealand? As in the place in Denmark? She noticed hand prints on the boat, painted in the designs of the flags she had already seen. A child sized print had the black, white and red design with the name Peter underneath. She paused to read the other names under the hand prints.  
>With the design of the Danish flag, Matthias, with the design of the Swedish flag, Berwald, with the design of the Norwegian flag, Lukas, with the design of the Icelandic flag, Eirik and with the design of the Finnish flag — outlined in black to be distinguished from the white boat — Tino.<br>She was mesmerized, these were the names Lukas had mentioned. Especially Berwald. "Berwald looked terrifying but was actually quite nice." She looked at the two hands marked "Matthias" and "Eirik", a Danish flag and an Icelandic flag. She looked back in the direction of the house as she recalled Lukas mentioning he had two brothers from different countries. That man she had met, which one of the other four was he?

* * *

><p>Sweden looked down at his hand. He would put the pin in Norway's room. Then, the memory came to him. The note with the name "Fernando" on it. Then the words "Troy. Atlantis. Pompeii. Me." He put the cat on the floor and she followed after him. When he opened Norway's room, she immediately jumped on the bed. From there, she climbed on the dresser and lay down. Her tail knocked over a frame, which came apart from the fall and revealed a small Swedish flag. Berwald blinked, he put the pin down and stooped to pick up the fallen frame. The inside cover was painted with the colors of his flag.<br>The photograph housed inside the frame was a fairly dated family portrait. In it, he had sat in the back directly behind Norway. Denmark was ruffling Iceland's hair and Finland was sitting to the side, looking peaceful.  
>An odd configuration but a nice photograph, overall. Stuck to the back of the antique was a small candid photograph of the Swede cooking. Who had taken this photo and why did Norway have it? He looked back at the cat, who had gotten her paw stuck in the small gap of the top drawer. He pulled the drawer open to free her and her tail swatted the cross pin as she jumped down.<br>A folded shirt had caught the pin. The shirt was one Berwald recognized. Matthias had made one for each of them and insisted they wear them during Eurovision a few years earlier. The shirt had a Norwegian flag with the caption "Norge" underneath. They all had shirts in the style, including Peter, and wore them to humor the Dane. Sweden was thinking of this as he reached in to grab the golden cross, pausing when he noticed that the pin had landed on a portion of the blue of the Norwegian flag. The pin and the blue made a Swedish flag design atop the Norwegian flag. This was a meaningless accident, he should not read too much into it.  
>It did not mean anything. It did not mean anything.<p>

_It meant the world to him._

* * *

><p>.Thank you so much for your patience, I appreciate your readership! As for this story, I have already finished writing it by hand. Typing it up just takes a while since I work all my fan fiction through a mobile phone with a neat word processing app. So, no worries, this story is 100% completed and though it takes a long time to update you will get an ending.<p> 


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
>A year had passed since he had seen Norway disappear into nothingness. A year had dragged and flown by all at the same time. He had welcomed the new year in Finland, with Peter and Tino. Preparations were being made for Spring. The snow was defrosting and the leaves were starting to regrow on the trees. Denmark and Iceland were like ghosts, they showed up and vanished. Everyone dealt with losing Norway a little differently. They had not mentioned or alluded to him in months. Norway was truly gone now.<br>Flax had finally accepted a name. Her fur reminded Sweden of Norway's hair, both were the same delicate, pale gold color. She was no longer frail, having become a strong and healthy cat. Flax played with Hanatamago and Mr. Puffin whenever she got the chance.

Her fur was still a pale golden color, though it was usually hidden under a layer of other colors. All of these colors were the result of mischief, such as the time she spilt a bucket of fabric dye on herself and wound up sporting a vivid neon green for nearly two weeks. Peter was advised not to leave dyes around after that but Flax managed to find other ways to disguise her colors. She was quite the ball of energy, she and Hanatamago had run through the mud on various occasions. Even though the two were cat and dog, they got along well. Flax was a good cat, nearly filling the void Lukas had left in Berwald's life.

* * *

><p>He had spent the past year forgetting, or at least trying to. Being away from them was difficult. A part of him still yearned for the tall blond. He just did not want to risk a tragedy. He was not used to the solitude of his new apartment. He had become acquainted with the neighbors and kept in touch with the people he had met before moving to Hammerfest. There were still days when he remembered the hospital. It was not an ordinary hospital, but the Hospital International. It was one of the few which treated nation-persons. He had spent so much time there that he had memorized all the doctors and nurses. He even knew them all by name. Since the Hospital also treated regular patients, he had met patients on the different floors. An elderly woman named Ethel had told him so much about her grandchildren. The youngest was living in Hammerfest, Norway, which had made Lukas smile. Ethel had been recovering from an extensive surgery and would often talk to Lukas when he did his daily walking rounds. A boy who had broken his leg had been fascinated by the Norwegian's floating curl and had insisted Lukas sign the cast. Lukas had walked past the nursery and maternity halls only twice. Seeing couples with their children had been too painful to bear more than twice.<br>An elderly war veteran had amused him with stories of soldiers engaging in lighthearted shenanigans. A couple of drinks on a slow night, minor pranks off the battlefield. Simple joys. The man had revelled in his memories but had firmly warned Lukas against going to war.  
>"Take it from me, son, war is nothing but heartache. There are no winners in a war. Your army may win, but the minute you step into the front lines, you lose everything. Don't do that to yourself." He had spoken lowly, his voice somber. A nurse had whisked him away, apologizing a little to Lukas as she led the veteran for some blood tests.<p>

He looked out the window, this was not the hospital. There was no constant sting of antiseptic in the air and the halls and rooms were not all white. Here he did not have his food delivered on an aluminum tray with his name on a small, off-white label. This was a home, a warm place filled with vibrant color and soft carpeting. Burgundy, beige and pastel green adorned the apartment. He matched the burgundy curtains and beige carpet with a bedspread in damask print in the two colors. The bathroom and kitchen were both pastel green with burgundy accents.  
>He had been tempted to recreate the old room he had slept in and decorate the apartment to replicate the home in Sweden. How he wanted to go back and tell Berwald the truth. He opened the door and walked out until he was at the sidewalk. Children waved eagerly at him and adults greeted him politely. He was so far from the old homes. Hammerfest was a good place to start anew.<p>

* * *

><p>He had found the note again. The ink had faded and the bright yellow square of paper had dulled, but it was still just as vivid to him as the first day he had seen it. He had asked around for a Fernando that may have been connected to Lukas but found no results. He knew he should not have but he had decided he would go into the Norwegian's room and search for any traces or hints that could help him locate the mysterious Fernando. He had pulled open some drawers and found three small booklets. Each booklet was accompanied by a thin stack of papers stapled together. He had pulled them out of the drawers and noticed they were old and covered in symbols he could not read, himself. The papers, however, he could read. Without so much as a second thought, Berwald dove in to read them.<br>The first booklet was titled "Troy", the second "Atlantis" and the third "Pompeii." He began to read the first booklet, but before he had finished the first paragraph he stopped. Something about these booklets was calling to him, a familiarity he could not place. He was certain he had never seen these booklets before, yet they pulled on him for some reason. He could feel something but was not entirely sure what it was. He read a little more and it flickered in his brain. He could see Matthias' pensive face, the Dane had tried to make sense of it. He vividly recalled seeing the other at a table, repeating the three titles like an incantation, attempting to make sense of the odd combination of words. Three legendary ancient civilizations. Why had these booklets mattered so much? Even though these booklets had no obvious link to the Fernando he sought, they were the key to another mystery. Berwald continued reading.

* * *

><p>The neighborhood children loved him, they had begun calling him "Uncle Lukas." The adults trusted him and often asked him for favors. Lukas refused to help anyone, he was always happy to lend a hand. They had all been so welcoming when he had moved in and he found he enjoyed living at the apartment in Hammerfest. There were days when he thought of the old homes, the ones they had all lived in together. One in each of their capitals — Copenhagen, Helsinki, Oslo Stockholm and Reykjavík — were all so far away now. He had missed the old homes so much while at the Hospital International. Everyone he had talked to had told him the same thing, though. He should move away as far as possible or travel until he found himself enjoying foreign scenery to the point where the old homes became a distant memory. Travelling would bring too much attention to himself so he opted to move away.<br>It had been Ethel to mention Hammerfest, as well as the fairly new apartments. Her youngest granddaughter, Jenna, was a tenant in the building and he had met her on his third day there. Apparently, Ethel had mentioned him often and detailed enough that she knew who he was. She was a lively young woman who worked as a waitress aboard cruise ships. Her job made her travel often but she told Lukas that she had enjoyed Norway the most and made her permanent home there. A few days after he moved in, she had asked him to watch her dog while she was out working. Her dog was small, white and curly haired, reminding the blond of Hanatamago. He almost missed Berwald enough to call him while he had the dog. When Jenna had returned, Ethel had been with her.  
>"Lukas, how wonderful to see you again! I thought Jenna was pulling this old bat's leg!" The older woman had beamed.<br>Simple memories and simple pleasures filled his days now. His two brothers still visited, though they had to promise to keep quiet. No one was to tell Berwald about him. He still visited them and Tino, but Berwald was a person to be left in the past. He did not need the Swede in his life to be happy. He found that happiness was not found in the arms of the tall Swede but on firm Norwegian soil. Sweden was no longer part of his life. This was a great change, he held up his head and moved on with his life. He was happy. Berwald had been set aside and the Norwegian was happy.  
>If this was true, why had he snuck out to visit Berwald's room in the house in Oslo?<p>

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Peter and Berwald had been invited to spend a week in Paris. This time, they had both accepted the invitation. François was hosting the so-called "FACE family".<br>Arthur looked displeased and Alfred mumbled in his sleep. François was out, picking up Mathieu from the airport. They would be home in time for dinner. The American was asleep on the couch, his weight slumped against the Englishman's shoulder. The snoring and incoherent mumbling made Arthur roll his eyes in exasperation. He nudged the younger in a failed attempt to wake him.  
>Berwald broke the conversational silence, "How do you think you will fare in this year's Eurovision?" The song contest was only a few weeks away.<br>"Ah. I won't hex it but I do believe this is our year at last." He responded smugly, nudging the sleeping blond again.  
>"Wasn't that what you said <em>last<em> year?" Peter countered.  
>"Honestly, Peter, do you really think I expected <em>Azerbaijan<em> to win?" Arthur mused calmly. "I say this year is our turn."  
>Berwald agreed, "Azerbaijan was unexpected, I will admit. Do you believe there will be no surprises this year, then?" Arthur nudged Alfred again as the Swede spoke.<br>"None! We are definitely going to win. Our act is strong." Arthur smiled, giving a nudge that sent Alfred off the couch onto the floor with a dull thump.  
>"I'm up! I'm up!" Alfred mumbled.<br>"So sure of your act, are you?" Berwald hummed lightly. Peter looked over at Alfred and nudged him with the tip of his shoe.  
>"What'cha talk'n 'bout?" The American yawned, too groggy to speak without a slur.<br>"Eurovision?" Peter replied simply.  
>"Was'at? You guys have Eur'vision. Lemme in on 'e fun?" He slurred.<br>"No. It's Eurovision and it's sacred. I won't have you make an arse of yourself at it." The Englishman retorted. Alfred was starting to fall back asleep on the floor, not interested in listening to Arthur's sass.  
>"Should be able to join. I'm fricking America." He murmured a little more coherently.<br>"Precisely why you can't! Tell me, when you hear Eurovision, Euro-vision, what do you hear?"  
>"Euro-vision. <em>Euro<em>-vision. Euro-_vision_." Alfred repeated in a half-dazed, mocking imitation of Arthur's voice. "Euros are the money I hafta use when I'm here. Vision's like television, right?" He was barely keeping himself awake and in his groggy state he didn't process too much before speaking again. "Ohmygod. You have television in your money. Note to self, get that. A'right, I'm sleeping." He closed his eyes and began dozing away again without so much as a regard to getting off the floor.  
>Arthur rolled his eyes and gave his old charge a hard nudge with his foot. "You're an absolute idiot. Euro as in Europe. In other words, not <em>America<em>. Now, get off the floor. Have some decency."  
>The other swatted the offending foot before getting up moodily. "I bet it's stupid anyway. Lemme sleep in peace, I had a transatlantic… What is Eurovision?"<br>François heard the question as he walked in and saw Alfred slumping down on the couch, answering it with a smirk. "Ah, Eurovision? Eurovision Song Contest. It's a musical act competition. Music, theatrics, competition… All the makings of France wiping the floor with your act this year."  
>"Only thing you'll be wiping are tears from your face when France loses! Your song bored me to death last year."<br>"If only it _had _bored you to death." The Frenchman clicked his tongue.  
>"Now, now. The Contest hasn't even started yet. You two can become disgustingly competitive once it does." The quiet but humorous comment came from the smiling Canadian. "Hello, Arthur. Al— asleep, hmm. Peter! Berwald, I wasn't expecting to see you. What a pleasant surprise!"<br>"Dinner will be served shortly." François announced as he dipped out of sight into the kitchen.  
>"Thank you, Mister France." Peter called after him.<br>Chatter ensued as they waited for François and a groggy American was blinking slowly as he stared at his phone, a series of clicks coming from the device.  
>In only a few minutes, which went by quickly, he called them to the table. He had prepared Canard à l'Orange with a light salad and warm brioche. These dishes were all waiting, served elegantly in blue porcelain plates when they took their seats. At first, they ate silently, enjoying the meal. Then, Alfred broke the silence.<br>"Peter, have you been to Eurovision?" He asked, wide awake and eagerly.  
>"Yeah, I even went and saw it live when Norway hosted." Peter grinned. "It was great!"<br>"WHAT?! No offense, dude. How come Sealand gets to participate? He's not even a country! You've refused to recognize his independence! That's totally unfair. I should get to join in too." Alfred complained.  
>"Simple. Sealand may not be a country, but as <em>Peter<em> is European, he is allowed to participate. _You_ are not." The Englishman easily replied.  
>"Fine, but I'm definitely going to the Olympics this year. You're hosting." America huffed. Arthur's face blanched in a quick moment of realization. He had momentarily forgotten about the upcoming London Games. The event meant everyone would be at his place. So much for a quiet summer of solitude.<p>

* * *

><p>He stretched out on his bed. He could hear doors down the hall opening and closing. It was spring term for those in school. They were all headed out for another day of education. A knock on his door stole him away from his thoughts. He got up and opened the door.<br>"Lukas, I'm so sorry to bother. My car won't start and I'm going to be late to work. Would you mind giving me a lift?" One of his neighbors asked nervously.  
>"No, I don't mind at all. Just tell me where to drive and I'll take you there." He answered.<br>"You're a life saver!" She smiled.  
>It was not a far drive and he enjoyed having excuses to leave the apartment at times when he did not have to work. After he dropped her off, he did not turn back to return home. He continued driving until he made it to a national road. He was going to Oslo.<br>He knew he should not. He should turn around and go back to his elegant apartment in Hammerfest. He should move on entirely and sell the house in Oslo. He had been away from Berwald for over a year, he had no emotional attachment, he told himself. He could go to Oslo if he pleased. There was no harm in going back to his old house. He might even pick up some things to take back to his apartment in Hammerfest. He watched the traffic go by. He drove past cities he had always heard of and new attractions he had never been to. The colors of day changed and clouds formed and disfigured themselves and each other. He turned on the radio and began enjoying the trip. A few hours on the road with music he had never heard was a good way to spend his time. He drove on, noticing cars and other vehicles pass by.  
>Hours had passed by when he felt a knot in his stomach. He should turn around and make his way back to Hammerfest. This would be his last trip to Oslo, he promised himself. He would never return after this. He parked his car, took his key out of the glove compartment and began walking up the stepping stones. He unlocked the door and walked inside, locking up behind himself. He slipped the key in his pocket then froze.<br>Did he hear footsteps? He had heard footsteps coming from upstairs. Thieves! He turned and saw what he thought was a reflection of his own hair flash trough the room. He quietly made his way to Mathias' room and pulled the Dane's battle-axe out of the closet. It was heavier than he remembered and he nearly dropped it from being unprepared. He walked up the stairs, his heart rate increasing. He took a deep breath and gripped the axe more firmly. His door and Tino's door remained closed, the open door was the Swede's bedroom door. A meow startled him, a cat could not have opened the door. He had closed them all the last time he had been here. He took a few more steps, axe in hand but was not prepared for what he saw.  
>He heard the sound of a thud and turned. They were face to face. He had not changed at all since Berwald had last seen him. He was still the most perfect man in the whole world and after a year of having been so far away they stood merely half a meter apart. Lukas picked the weapon back up as Berwald formulated words. He could not find his voice to speak.<br>"What are you doing here?" Lukas blurted. He could not think. He could hardly feel the handle of the object in his hand. Lukas was remaking his life, a simple encounter with the Swede was not going to make him throw it all away. He was not some romantic movie character that would run desperately into the awaiting arms of his long lost love and forsake all his work trying to forget. He reminded himself the world did not work that way in reality.  
>"I came here to see the house, Lukas. I thought you didn't live here anymore. I just came back to visit old memories…" Berwald replied, taken aback.<br>"You shouldn't be here." Lukas told him firmly. He didn't believe in love. Love was a useless term that caused more harm than good. He would not allow himself to fall into its grip again.  
>"Lukas, let's talk. I haven't seen you in over a year. We haven't talked or even heard of each other in so long. Can't we talk?"<br>"We have nothing to talk about. We have our own paths to follow and yours doesn't lead to Norway. Go back to Sweden, Berwald."  
>"What about Fernando? Can we talk about Fernando?"<br>"No! We can't talk about Fernando!" Lukas started to panic.  
>"I know you are… or were…. in love with—"<br>Lukas cut him off desperately. "GET OUT! GET OUT!" He held the battle-axe pointed in the Swede's direction. "GET OUT, _NOW_!"  
>The Norwegian's heart thundered in his ears as he watched Berwald pick up a cat and leave. This time the Swede was gone forever, he would never see Berwald outside of formal work ever again. He caught his breath again and returned the battle-axe to its rightful place, blinking quickly and shaking his head to clear it. He was so scared for a moment. He breathed to calm himself and sank down to the floor with a knot in his throat. He needed to close his heart off completely. He was afraid of being another booklet. He scolded himself for not having turned around and returned to Hammerfest as soon as his better judgement had ordered. Why had he ignored that chiding voice and come here? One day he would have run into Berwald here if he continued returning. They all had a key to this place, why had he not stopped himself better. Now he was at risk again.<p>

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><p>Berwald felt the pit in his chest again. He had not been allowed to tell the Norwegian he loved him. He thought of the booklets and swallowed hard. Was he at risk too, now? He clenched his fist and stroked Flax's fur lightly. One way or another this had to end, but he was not sure either of them was prepared to know how it would play out. He took a deep breath.<p>

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><p>AN: Thanks for the patience, everyone. I have some general news and some about this story. 1. I just got a job which is physically exhausting, updates may slow down just a bit as I adjust to the energy levels needed to function. 2. This story is nearing it's conclusion, thank you to everyone who has been here to read it. I love you all. Miri-Chan. Thanks for following this story since the beginning! I really appreciate it. Especially since you take the extra effort to check as you are a guest.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

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><p>He should be celebrating, he should be happy. The phone rang, Peter picked up and began chattering excitedly. He felt nothing. He truly should be cheering. Sweden had won Eurovision. He had seen Peter jump up to hug him, even Flax seemed happy. Yet, Berwald felt only emptiness.<br>"Papa! It's for you." Peter handed him the phone.  
>"Dude, congrats! It's nice to win, right? I mean it's no IWaterlooI, but it's good." Alfred's voice rattled with excitement even through the phone.  
>Berwald stammered, confused, "Waterloo?"<br>"Oh, come on! Waterloo. The song ABBA won Eurovision with?" Alfred laughed. "I thought you'd know better than me."  
>Berwald handed the phone to Peter. ABBA. He headed upstairs.<br>"Dude, your old man forgot his national identity for a minute there."  
>"What do you mean?" Peter asked.<br>"He totally forgot about ABBA! It's like his national band or something. ABBA's huge!" Peter raised his eyebrow as he heard that.  
>"Don't worry. He's as Swedish as it gets. One hundred percent. Can't out-Swede him if you tried." The boy assured the older blond.<br>"Seriously? Is all his furniture from IKEA?" The voice on the other line sounded genuinely curious and eager. Peter bit his lip for a moment.  
>"Every last bit." The boy kept his voice as serious as he could.<br>"Uhhh, his clothes from that one shop with the letters… some really trendy… the kids…"  
>"I know which one you mean. Yep."<br>"Does he drive a Volvo?"  
>"Two, actually."<br>"Does he know every ABBA song by heart?"  
>"You know it! In Swedish and English!" Peter cracked finally and began snickering.<br>"PETER KIRKLAND-OXENSTIERNA! Don't encourage him!" Arthur's voice scolded.  
>"I'm sorry." Peter managed through laughter.<br>"You aren't sorry. Now I have to explain to him you were joking. Getting his hopes up like that." The call ended there.  
>Berwald had climbed up to the attic and pulled out a box of old cassettes and CDs. He should have seen this a long time ago. Fernando was a <em>song<em>. He grabbed an old jewel case and dusted it off. There it was in the track list. Fernando. He put the box back where he had found it and went downstairs to his room. The song contained a clue. Fernando was not a rival lover, it was a song on the disc in his hands. He took the disc out and opened the disc compartment of his multimedia player. He set it to the track that corresponded to the song Fernando and pressed play. The disc was scratched and began to repeat a single line. "There's no regrets" played over and over until the sound warped into a warbled mess. The voice became slow and distorted then the CD stopped playing altogether. Berwald sat on his bed. Lukas Had left him clues before he had left over a year ago.  
>He had to think of the Norwegian's words. "Troy. Atlantis. Pompeii. Me." Mentioning the three ancient civilizations had been his way of hinting. They all had one thing in common: love. Norway had been talking about love. "Fernando." The little note on sticky-backed paper. Lukas must have known the disc was scratched, and what line it would repeat when he played it. The three civilizations had been his way of telling them he had fallen in love and what his fate might be. He had left "Fernando" for Sweden to tell him he did not regret it. Fallen in love with Berwald.<br>So why had he been so cold in Oslo?

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><p>Lukas looked at the crowd that had gathered in the hallway and double checked the floor number. This was the second floor. He counted the doors. They were crowding around apartment B6. <em>His<em> apartment. He thought about asking someone what was going on but it appeared everyone was tightly packed around his door. If he approached, they would all see him. He turned around to leave but felt a tug on his sleeve. Little Gilla was excited about something. The half-Italian six year old beamed up at him.  
>"Uncle Lukas! You have a visitor. Come on, Uncle Lukas!" She spoke in her accented Norwegian. Gilla ran back to the crowd and drove their attention to Lukas. The crowd began calling to him. Music started to play. He had no escape in view, plus his arms were growing tired from carrying the groceries.<br>He sighed and made his way to his apartment. There was a man with a violin, a man with a guitar and a wavy haired brunette woman to the left of a tall figure playing a harp. The tall figure was none other than Berwald. The music had attracted a crowd. A romantic song with sweet vocals courtesy of the brunette woman, to be exact.  
>"Berwald, what are you doing here?" Lukas burst, a mixture of anger and shock. He opened the door and set his groceries down inside. He told himself he should lock the door and ignore the Swede but there was a crowd and he did not want to make a scene. He sighed, "Come inside."<br>The crowd dispersed as the bespectacled man and the musicians entered. Before Lukas could speak to Berwald or ask the musicians to give them privacy, the taller spoke.  
>"If you have no regrets, why have you been so distant?" He asked.<br>Lukas was stunned into silence. It had been over a year since he had left that clue. One entire year and some odd months since he had been carried home limp and weak. Oslo had been only a few weeks ago. He had spent over a year burying his feelings for the other and he was not going to allow Berwald to dig them back out.  
>"I'm not going to be the next one." Lukas answered without thinking. He had never told anyone about the booklets directly. Not other than alluding to them when he thought himself on the verge of death. He scrambled for something to say to cover it up but as Sweden was quicker.<br>"Troy, Atlantis, and Pompeii, right?" It was more a statement than a question. "Listen to me. Last time you didn't listen. I'm going to stay here until you listen to me this time."  
>"We have nothing to talk about. Go home and play house with Tino and Peter." Lukas spoke as coldly as he could manage, narrowing his eyes. He found it difficult to project ferocity when he was fighting back a twisting in his stomach and a knot in his throat.<br>"Lukas, I'm sorry if I made you believe you weren't important to me. I'm sorry if I made it seem like I have feelings for Tino. I don't. I nev—"  
>"Don't lie to me. He's your 'wife', no?" Lukas put air quotes around the word wife. He tried to sound angry, which was not as difficult when he felt a hint of jealousy underneath the fear and ache.<br>"That was a joke. It never meant anything more. Tino is a great man and he has a good bond with Peter but he isn't the one I love. I'm sorry it took nearly losing you in a storm to sort myself out. Jeg elsker deg."  
>Something shattered inside Lukas' chest. He felt a compression and he found it hard to breathe, the knot in his throat was impossible to swallow, and his mind went blank. He shook his head. No. He did not hear correctly. He had not heard those words. Words would not come out of his mouth no matter what he tried to say. He was in Berwald's arms now, his own hung limply at his sides. He could feel and hear the other's heartbeat, he could smell Berwald's scent. He felt weak in the knees and gasped, finally feeling his chest ease a little. His reaction time was too slow. This moment was too surreal, too perfect. He was going to wake up in the hospital. He was going to open his eyes and find himself dying in Yggdrasil. He could not be sober, this had to be his pink elephant. This could not be happening.<br>The silence felt eternal to him, dragging on too long. He closed his eyes tighter. This always happened when someone woke from a dream. The dream broke up.  
>"If you do not love me anymore, I will leave you alone." Berwald's voice sounded strained, almost choked.<br>"No. Jag älskar dig!" Lukas breathed quickly. He took in the scene and felt his heart ache.  
><em>Wake up. Wake up. This is a dream. Don't fool yourself. You know you're going to wake up and realize none of this is real. Don't dream anymore. It will only hurt you when you wake. It's all fake. Wake—<em> Lukas' thoughts were interrupted.

Their lips met gently. It was a shy kiss, a first kiss. It was followed by a second, then a kiss to the forehead. Lukas opened his eyes and looked around. This was his apartment in Hammerfest. The music was real, coming from the hired musicians. The singing was real as well. Lukas looked up at Berwald's eyes and gripped his shirt tightly. He tilted his head slightly and kissed back.  
>Their lips were meeting and pulling away. Lukas trembled. This was better rhan any dream he had ever had. This was exciting. They interlocked fingers, they let go. It was all a rhythm. It was all the body's music. It was beautiful. Heartbeats were percussion. Sighs and breaths were wind. It was all rhythm. The wispy vocals completed the melody. The crescendo was approaching, a shudder and silence. Their piece was over. Whispered words, innocent kisses, gentle caresses, Lukas could hardly breathe. The felt his chest aflame.<br>"I'm never letting you out of my life again." The Swede murmured in the other's ear, breathless.  
>The shorter blond smiled lightly, "I'm never leaving." He sealed it with a kiss to the Swede's cheek.<p>

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><p>.<p>

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><p>The piano echoed beautifully through the hall, the masquerade ball was expertly put together. Berwald took Lukas out to the dance floor, a hand on the small of the latter's back. He pulled his companion closer and they fell in step to the music. Their hands were clasped and extended short distance away from them. Lukas stepped back only to be pulled right into the taller's chest. Berwald dipped his beloved in a swift, elegant motion. As the music progressed, he stole a kiss from the shorter, who responded by turning around so they faced the same way. Berwald wrapped his arms around Lukas, who interlocked their arms.<br>When the music stopped, Berwald and Lukas were in the center of the dance floor. Berwald lowered his head to be level with the smaller's ear and whispered, "You're still never leaving, are you?"  
>Lukas tensed up at the question. He looked at the other, unsure. "No…Is something the matter, Berwald?"<br>"Would you marry me, here and now?"  
>He looked at the eyes behind the glasses, Berwald was being serious. It was so sudden. They had barely been together a few weeks. He did not want to refuse. He would not say no but he could not find his voice enough to say yes. He could only ask, "Why?"<br>"No more waiting and running away. I almost lost you because I waited. I have no plans of risking that again."  
>Lukas managed a small smile. "Yes. I would."<br>Berwald made a flicking motion with his hand and the music started up again. It was different than before and Lukas gasped when he recognized what it was. It was a wedding march. He took a sudden breath and spluttered, looking around the room. The masks came off and he recognized all the guests.  
>"Surprise!"<br>Eirik and Mathias let go of each other and took their respectful places.

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><p>.<p>

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><p>.<p>

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><p>They were looking through their wedding gifts after the honeymoon. Their funny little American friend had sent them something extra, an ABBA Gold CD. Although both Lukas and Berwald had smiled at the gesture, the Swede put the disc away and brought out the old, scratched one.<br>It wasn't long before the song was reduced to repeating "there's no regrets."  
>Perfect.<p>

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><p>.<p>

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><p>The end.<p>

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><p>AN: I want to thank each and every reader. Whether or not you made any action other than that. Thank you for sticking with it the whole way through! Sorry I took an absolute eternity to get the end finished. All my love to you all. Especially the super patient people who started out reading this back in 2011. Your perseverance paid off, and I appreciate the support. Bless your hearts!


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